TO THE CROCUS. 
Pale as the pale blue veins that streak 
Consumption’s thin transparent cheek. 
With death hues blending. 
Thou shalt be Sorrow’s love and mine. 
The violet and the eglantine 
With Spring are banish’d ; 
In Summer’s beam the roses shine ; 
But I of thee my wreath will twine. 
When these are vanish’d. 
—Miss M. A. Browne.'’ 
TO THE CROCUS. 
Lowly, sprightly little flower! 
Herald of a brighter bloom, 
Bursting in a sunny hour 
From thy winter tomb. 
Hues you bring, bright, gay, and tender, 
As if never to decay ; 
Fleeting in their varied splendour— 
Soon, alas ! it fades away. 
Thus the hopes I long had cherish’d, 
Thus the friends I long had known. 
One by one, like you. have perish’d, 
Blighted—I must fade alone. 
—Pattersow. 
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