
On Observing » Blossom on the First of Hebrurry, 
8. T. Coleridge. 
WEET Flower! that peeping from thy russet stem 
Unfoldest timidly (for in. strange sort 
This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering Month 
Hath borrowed Zephyr’s‘voice, and gazed on thee 
With blue, voluptuous eye), alas, poor Flower! 
These are but flatteries of the faithless year. 
Perchance, escaped its unknown polar caye, 
Ken now, the keen North East is on its way 
Flower that must perish! Shall I liken thee 
To some sweet girl, of too, too rapid growth, 
Nipped by consumption ’mid untimely charms ? 
Or to Bristowa’s-bard,* the wondrous boy ! 
An amaranth, which earth scarce seemed to own, 
Till disappointment came, and pelting wrong 
Beat it to Harth? or with indignant grief 
Shall I compare thee to poor Poland’s hope, 
Bright flower of hope, killed in the opening bud? 
Farewell, sweet blossom! better fate be thine 
* Chatterton. 



























