






212 POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
What time the cuckoo tunes his mellow flute, 
And on the sward the grasshopper we hear ; 
"Tis then all gaily in thy yellow suit 
A smiling floral star thou dost appear. 
Memory wipes off the dust of time, and brings 
Sweet recollections of those joyous hours, 
When wandering gladly near Dove's pleasant 
springs, 
I culled a copious harvest of thy flowers ; 
With pinafore filled out—a venturous boy, 
I tumbled in the grass, and shouted wild for joy. 
—— 
SONNET TO THE SNOWDROP. 
Fut oft the poet has essayed to sing 
Thy merits, simple flower ; nor quite in vain. 
Yet not to thee may I devote the strain 
Of eulogy; but to that glorious king, 
Who bids thy silver bell his praises ring, 
And doth thy leaves so delicately vein, 
Making thee meek and modest through thy 
mien, 
he darling of the progeny of spring. 
Ay, many a brighter flower the vernal gale 
Will kiss, but none to which affection clings 
As unto thee; who, as the strong sun flings 
His brightness on thee, dost so meekly veil 
