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| Silv’ry bud, thy pensile foliage — 
Seems the angry blasts to fear; 
| Yet secure, thy tender texture 
Ornaments the rising year. 
No warm tints, or vivid colouring, 
Paint thy bells with gaudy pride ; 
\ Mildly charm’d we seek thy fragraneg, 
Where no thorns insidious hide. 
Tis not thine, with flaunting beauty, 
To attract the roving sight ; 
Nature from her varied wardrobe, 
Chose thy vest of purest white. 
White ay 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 garland 
Thou thy perfume soft shalt breathe. 




