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Uncheck'd by storms, unchill’d by cold,

“ Wan herald of the coming year,” We see her pennon fair unfold,

While yet the skies are dark and drear; And streaming on the wintry gale, We bid her spotless banner hail.

Her hardiest veteran Flora sends,

The green and pensile staff to bear, And while his ramparts frost defends,

To plant her standard firmly there : Till, like some shallop's snow-white sail, It floats upon the icy gale.

Soon, numerous as the countless train,

That wak'd the Persian monarch's tear, The welcome conquerors of the plain,

Shall Flora's flowery bands appear: Pledge of her coming, lo! we hail Her banner waving in the gale.

Come then, thy signal-flag display,

And on the breeze thy streamers fling, Fair as the flowers of sorrow's day,

That in the mourner's pathway spring, To cheer him while the storm prevails, And bring the hope of milder gales.

Primula vulgaris. Common Primrose.

Pentandria Monogynia.

Blossom tube cylindrical. Mouth open. Stem within the

tube. Capsule one-celled, cylindrical, many-seeded, opening with ten teeth. Leaves wrinkled, toothed. Border of the blossom flat.-Withering,



Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire !
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,

Was nursed in whirling storms,
And cradled in the winds.

Thee, when young Spring first question'd winter's sway,
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight;

Thee on this bank he threw,
To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,

Unnoticed and alone,
Thy tender elegance.

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity, in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,
Obscure and unobserved ;

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While every bleaching breeze that on her blows,
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear
Serene the ills of life.

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WHERE thorny ramparts seem to chide

The hand that plucks the flowery wreath,
I've seen thee thrust the thorn aside,

To pluck the flower that blooms beneath.
And thus, Maria, as the wheel

Of life leads on the changing hour,
Remember still the sweets to steal ;

Elude the thorn to pluck the flower.
When fortune shows a dubious sky,

The east may smile, the west may lower:
Still to the brighter turn thine eye;

Elude the thorn to pluck the flower.
In pity to its child below,

If Heaven the cup of comfort sour,
The lesson learn, but chase the woe :

Elude the thorn to pluck the flower.

But shun, ah, shun the sweets that grow

Where Pleasure paints her poison’d bowers :
Dark are those streams that gently flow;

And rude the thorns that guard her flowers.
But seek thy sweets on holier ground,

And where Religion’s altars rise:
Hers are the thorns that never wound;

And hers the flower that never dies.

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