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TO A SNOWDROP.
Through the cold and cheerless season,
Soft thy tender form expands, Safe in unaspiring graces,
Foremost of the bloomy bands.
White-robed flower, in lonely beauty
Rising from a wintry bed,
Rudely threatening round thy head.
Silvery bud thy pensive foliage,
Seems thy angry blasts to fear, Yet secure, thy tender texture
Ornaments the rising year.
No warm tints of vivid colouring
Paint thy bells with gaudy pride, Mildly charmed we feel thy fragrance,
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, as falls the fleecy shower,
Thy soft form in sweetness grows, Not more fair the valley's treasure,
Not more sweet her lily grow's.
Drooping harbinger of Flora,
Simply are thy blossoms drest, Artless as the gentle virtues
Mansioned in the blameless breast.
When to pure and timid virtue
Friendship twines a votive wreath,
TO THE MEMORY OF H. KIRKE WHITE.
BRIGHT be the place of thy soul !
No lovelier spirit than thine
In the realms of the blessed to shine.
As thy soul shall immortally be,
When we know that thy God is with thee.
May its verdure like emeralds be;
In aught that reminds us of thee.
May spring from the spot of thy rest,
GOD'S OWN CHURCH.
It riseth in all ands,
And by the desert sands.
A heavenly, holy thing,
Peace is its heritage;
The same from age to age.
That hallowed form build we:
Removed ever be,
Yea, when we climb the rising walls
Is peace and comfort given,
But hath its end in heaven.
TO THE MEMORY OF THOMSON.
Unfolds her tender mantle green,
Or tunes Æolian strains between;
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
The progress of the spiky blade;
By Tweed erects his agéd head,
Each creature on his bounty fed;
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,
Or sweeping wild a waste of snows,
Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won;
A MOTHER'S LOVE.
Hast thou gone with the traveller Thought afar,
There is not a grand inspiring thought,