The Poetry of Flowers. 
9 * 
TO THE SNOWDROP. 
BY BARRY CORNWALL. 
Pretty firstling of the year ! 
Herald of the host of flowers ! 
Hast thou left thy cavern drear, 
In the hope of summer hours? 
Back unto thy earthen bowers, 
Back to thy warm world below, 
Till the strength of suns and showers 
Quell the now relentless snow ! 
Art still here ?—Alive ? and blithe ? 
Though the stormy night hath fled, 
And the Frost hath passed his scythe 
O'er thy small unsheltered head? 
Ah ! some lie amid the dead 
(Many a giant stubborn tree,— 
Many a plant, its spirits shed), 
That were better nursed than thee ! 
What hath saved thee ? Thou wast not 
’Gainst the arrowy winter furred— 
Armed in scale—but all forgot 
When the frozen winds were stirred. 
Nature, who doth clothe the bird, 
Should have hid thee in the earth, 
Till the cuckoo's song was heard, 
And the Spring let loose her mirth. 
Nature—deep and mystic word, 
Mighty mother ! still unknown ; 
Thou didst sure the Snowdrop gird 
With an armour all thy own ! 
