





















*70 THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Ah!—some lie arnid the dead, 
(Many a giant stubborn tree,— 
Many a plant, its spirits shed,) 
That were better nursed than thee! 
What hath saved thee? Thou wast not 
*Gainst the arrowy winter furr’d,—- 
Armd in scale—but all forgot 
When the frozen winds were stirr’d. 
Nature, who doth clothe the bird, 
Should have hid thee in the earth, 
Till the cuckoo’s song was heard, 
And the Spring let loose her mirth. 
Nature—deep and mystic word, 
Mighty mother, still unknown! 
Thou didst sure the Snow-drop gird 
With an arrnour all thine own ! 
Thou, who sent’st it forth alone 
‘To the cold and sullen season, 
(Like a thought at random thrown,) 
Sent it thus for some grave reason! 
If ’twere but to pierce the mind 
With a single gentle thought, 
Who shall deem thee harsh or blind? 
Who that thou hast vainly wrought f} 
Hoard the gentle virtue caught 
From the Snow-drop—reader wise ! 
Good is good, wherever taught, 
On the ground or in the skies! 

TO 
{waeD Jess 
Sreathe 
And long f 
| Devoted 
Top eye th 
The br 
Tih grate 
Atrange 
hitah! y 
Which 
The deyw 
And sta 
{l wateh 
Tig 
Tnpate 
Nochanm 
My jes 
bi soon 
Which 
And thoy 
Wf 
