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Let others, then, invoke the spring, 
And joy to see her buds unclose, 
Or from each bush bright summer flintr 
Her own sweet rose. 
I will not grieve to see them go, 
While winter such a wreath can twine; 
Ah! see how brightly through the snow 
These berries shine 
What could I less, than love the hour 
Which stills the bird, and strips the lea, 
Since, oh ! to cheer the social boicer, 
It gave us thee ! 
