THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
And thus the snowdrop, like the bow 
That spans the cloudy sky, 
Becomes a symbol whence we know 
That brighter days are nigh ; 
That circling seasons, in a race 
That knows no lagging lingering pace, 
Shall each the other nimbly chase 
Till Time’s departing final day 
Sweep snowdrops and the world away ‘ 
TO A SNOWDROP. 
LANGHORNE. 
Poets still, in graceful numbers, 
May the glowing roses choose; * 
But the snowdrop’s simple beauty 
Better suits an humble muse. 
Earliest bud that dqcks the garden, 
Fairest of the fragrant race, 
Firstborn child of Vernal Flora 
Seeking mild thy lowly place; 
Though no warm or murmuring zephyr 
Fan thy leaves with balmy wing, 
Pleased we hail thee, spotless blossom, 
Herald of the infant Spring. 
Through the cold and cheerless season 
Soft thy tender form expands, 
Safe in unaspiring graces, 
Foremost of the blooming bands. 
