rOETRY OF FLOWERS. 
79 
All weak and wan, with head inclined, 
Its parent-breast the drifted snow, 
It trembles, while the ruthless wind 
Bends its slim form; the tempest lowers, 
Its emerald eye drops crystal showers 
On its cold bed below. 
Poor flower! on thee the sunny beam 
No touch of genial warmth bestows, 
Except to thaw the icy stream 
Whose little current purls along, 
And whelms thee as it flows. 
The night-breeze tears thy silky dress, 
Which deck’d with silvery lustre shone ; 
The morn returns—not thee to bless— 
The gaudy Crocus flaunts its pride, 
And triumphs where its rival—died 
Unsheltered and unknown. 
No sunny beam shall gild thy grave, 
No bird of pity thee deplore : 
There shall no verdant branches wave; 
For Spring shall all her gems unfold, 
And revel midst her beds of gold, 
When thou art seen no more. 
Where’er I find thee, gentle flower, 
Thou still art sweet, and dear to me! 
For I have known the cheerless hour, 
