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POETRY OF FLOWERS. 229 
Ten thousand other flow’rs unfold 
Their purple, crimson, green, and gold, 
When spring bestows its fruitful show’rs, 
And summer.suns revive the bow’rs. 
Obtrude not then thy sickly form ; 
Bend thy pale head beneath the storm; 
Or fail, and, with’ring into dust, 
Decay, as all presumption must ! 
But, ere I sweep thy leaves away, 
What hast thou for thyself to say ?” 
Then resting in its wild career, 
The north-wind hush’d its breath to hear, 
The timid snow-drop thus replied, 
“Oh! charge me not with forward pride, 
I come, when none of Flora’s train, 
Except myself, are on the plain, 
I venture into sight, before 
The woodbine wreathes the cottage door s 
Before the very crocus throws 
its mimic flames among the snows; 
Ere yet the earliest daffodil 
Has blown ; and only linger till 
Expanding buds announce that, soon, 
New charms will grace the vernal noon 3 
But long before the tulip blooms, 
Or roses shed their rich perfumes, 
I from the crowded scene retire ; 
Court not the glance which may admire 
Their forms and hues: and, on my stem 
Declining, never rival them ; 




