HKi 
Of floral heralds, caught my gladden’d view, 
Till now, when woods, and meads, and bowers, full-rob’d, 
Proclaim thee in the zenith of thy power ! 
Oh what a world of beauty! Summer’s bloom 
And Autumn’s matron pride—say what are they, 
Compar’d with thee, thou Hebe of the year ? 
As far thy budding graces theirs excel 
As hope exceeds enjoyment, in a world 
That never yielded half the promis’d bliss. 
Look at these flowers, just peeping from their nest 
Of moss and leaves, so beautifully shy — 
It may be that the sight as yet is new, 
Or else, methinks, I love these lowly ones 
More than the rose herself; and better far 
Than boughs with fruitage crown’d, the dazzling wreaths 
Which deck yon wilding cherry, —white as snow, 
Save where a faint soft blush, all but invisible, 
Steals o’er the whiteness, as if Nature felt 
Uncertain of the effect, and fear’d to mar 
What seem’d already perfect As I gaze 
With kindling glance upon a scene so fair, 
Like some fond mother, who, while she doth watch 
The placid slumbers of her cradled babe, 
Forgets, ah, bitter thought! man’s doom of ill,— 
