SNOW-DROP. 
53 
’Tis not thine, with flaunting beauty 
To attract the roving sight; 
Nature, from her varied wardrobe, 
Chose thy vest of purest white. 
White, as falls 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 garden 
Thou thy perfume soft shalt breath??. 
The same. —Montgomery. 
Winter, retire! 
Thy reign is past; 
Hoary Sire! 
Yield the sceptre of thy sway, 
Sound thy trumpet in the blast, 
And call thy storms away: 
Winter, retire! 
Wherefore do thy wheels delay? 
Mount the chariot of thine ire, 
And quit the realms of day; 
'w 5 . . 
