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THE POET R S’ OF FLOWERS. 
Ah! some lie arnid 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 no* 
Uainst the arrowy winter furr’d,_ 
Arm’d in scale—but all forgot 
When the frozen winds were stirr’d. 
Nature, who doth clothe the bird, 
bhould 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 Snow-drop gird 
With an armour all thine own ! 
Thou, who sent’st it forth alone 
I o the cold and sullen season, 
(Like a thought at random thrown,) 
bent it thus for some grave reason ! 
Jf’twere but to pierce the mind 
With a single gentle thought, 
L 8 ^ 1 deem thee harsh or blind f 
Who that thou hast vainly wrought 1 
Hoard the gentle virtue caught 
From the Snow-drop—reader wise ! 
Good is good, wherever taught. 
On ihe ground or in the skies' 
