186 
THE LOVER’S OFFERING, 
And beautiful too is the cypress tree,— 
But it grows by the graves of the dead. 
The Laurel and Bay may wreath the brow 
Of heroes who armies have led; 
But their course was marked with carnage anc 
blood, 
And sad mourning over the dead. 
Then sing to the Holly, the prickly green Holly 
That’s loved by peasant and king ; 
From under its leaves begone melancholy, 
While loudly its praises we sing. 
THE CROCUS. 
Down in my solitude under the snow, 
Where nothing cheering can reach me 
Here, without light to see how to grow, 
I’ll trust to nature to teach me. 
I will not despair, nor be idle, nor frown, 
Lock’d in so gloomy a dwelling; 
My leaves shall run up, and my roots shall run 
down, 
While the bud in my bosom is swelling. 
Soon as the frost will get out of my bed, 
From this cold dungeon to free me, 
