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O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume,
But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Within the garden's cultured round
The lambkin crops its crimson gem,
'Tis FLORA's page;
in every place,
In every season fresh and fair,
It opens with perennial grace,
On waste and woodland, rock and plain,
Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The DAISY never dies.
Thy reign is past ;
Yield the sceptre of thy sway,
Sound thy trumpet in the blast,
Wherefore do thy wheels delay?
Mount the chariot of thine ire,
And blood-shot meteors lend thee light;
Hence to dreary arctic regions
Summon thy terrific legions;
Hence to caves of northern night
Breath of heaven, benignly blow,
Melt the snow;
Breath of heaven, unchain the floods,
And make the mountains flow.
Auspicious to the Muse's prayer,
The freshening gale
Embalms the vale,
And breathes enchantment through the air;
On its wing
Floats the Spring,
With glowing eye, and golden hair:
Dark before her Angel-form
She drives the demon of the storm,
Like Gladness chasing Care.
Winter's gloomy night withdrawn,
And shine in FLORA's desert bowers,
The Morning Star of Flowers.
O welcome to our isle,
The embattled tempests cease:
Emblem of Innocence and Truth,
When strong in renovated youth
A precious dew-drop on thine head,
Upon her infant's face,
When ardent hope to tender fear,
Upon her infant's cheek,
When the heart bounds with bliss,
And joy that cannot speak.
When I meet thee by the way,
Like a pretty sportive child,
On the winter-wasted wild,
With thy darling breeze at play,
Opening to the radiant sky
All the sweetness of thine eye;
-Or bright with sunbeams, fresh with showers,
O thou Fairy-Queen of flowers!
Watch thee o'er the plain advance
At the head of FLORA's dance;
All the beauties that appear
On the bosom of the Year,
All that wreathe the locks of Spring,
All to thee their tribute bring,
- Their hues, their odors, all are thine.
And Fancy's magic makes the vision true.
There is a Winter in my soul,
The winter of despair;
O when shall Spring its rage control?
When shall the SNOW-DROP blossom there?
Cold gleams of comfort sometimes dart
A dawn of glory on my heart,
But quickly pass away:
Thus Northern-lights the gloom adorn,
And give the promise of a morn
That never turns to day!
But, hark! methinks I hear
A still small whisper in mine ear;
"Rash youth, repent: Afflictions, from above, Are angels sent
On embassies of love.