236 
Floral Poetry. 
TO A TUFT OF EARLY VIOLETS. 
(AWEET flowers ! that from your humble beds 
Thus prematurely dare to rise, 
And trust your unprotected heads 
To cold Aquarius’ wat’ry skies ; 
Retire, retire ! these tepid airs 
Are not the genial brood of May ; 
That Sun with light malignant glares, 
And flatters only to betray. 
Stern Winter’s reign is not yet past— 
Lo ! while your buds prepare to blow, 
On icy pinions comes the blast, 
And nips your root, and lays you low. 
Alas, for such ungentle doom ! 
But I will shield you; and supply 
A kindlier soil on which to bloom, 
A nobler bed on which to die. 
Come then—ere yet the morning ray 
Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, 
And drawn your balmiest sweets away 3 
O come, and grace my Anna’s breast. 
