CROCUS. 
41 
Thy flower foretells a sunnier sky, 
And chides the dark despair, 
By winter’s chilling influence flung 
O’er spirits sunk, and nerves unstrung. 
And sweetly has kind Nature’s hand 
Assigned thy dwelling-place 
Beneath a flower whose blooms expand 
With fond congenial grace, 
On many a desolated pile, 
Brightening decay with beauty's smile. 
Thine is the flower of Hope, whose hue 
Is bright with coming joy; 
The wallflower’s that of Faith, too true 
For ruin to destroy;— 
And where, O ! where should Hope up-spring 
But under Faith’s protecting wing. 
TO THE CROCUS. 
PATTERSON. 
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 cherished, 
Thus the friends I long had known, 
One by one, like you, have perished, 
Blighted—I must fade alone. 
