260 
THE FOETKY OF FL0WEE3. 
Silv’ry bud, thy pensile foliage 
Seems the angry blasts to fear; 
Yet secure, thy tender texture 
Ornaments the rising year. 
No warm tints, or vivid colouring. 
Paint thy bells with gaudy pride ; 
Mildly charm’d we seek thy fragrance 
Where no thorns insidious hide. 
Tis not thine, with flaunting beauty, 
To attract the roving sight; 
Nature from her varied wardrobe, 
Chose thy vest of purest white. 
White a» /alls the fleecy shower, 
Thy soft form in sweetness grows; 
Not more fair the valley’s treasure, 
Not more sweet her lily blows. 
Drooping harbinger of Flora, 
Simply are thy blossoms drest; 
Artless as the gentle virtues 
Mansion’d in the blameless breast. 
When to pure and timid virtue 
Friendship twines a votive wreath, 
O’er the fair selected garland 
Thou thy perfume soft shalt breaths. 
