Addressed To An Amiable Young Lady On Presenting Her With Some Violets
ACCEPT, sweet Anne, the gift I bring,
The first fair promise of the year;
Meek children of the early Spring,
When fresh her opening buds appear:
An offering meet from those who own
No cultured garden's flowery pride;
To whom wild Nature's gifts atone
For those which Fate has long denied.
Still Fancy, to the musing mind,
That fondly hails her shadowy power,
Some speaking emblem loves to find
In every plant and budding flower.

Let Glory claim the laurel grove,
Which smiles 'mid Winter's chilling snows;
And still upon thy altar, Love,
Be placed the faintly-blushing rose.
Alas ! that Glory's wreath appears
So deeply tinged with sanguine hue;
Oh, stained with Sorrow's blighting tears,
Fades fast beneath the deadly dew.
E'en the fair rose, whose opening breast
Breathes of the balmy airs of morn,
Too rashly to the bosom prest,
Wounds deep with many a rankling thorn.
Be mine to haunt the fairy dell,
Where violets breathe their sweet perfume;
To weave Affection's gentler spell,
With flowers that boast a thornless bloom.

To Friendship's shrine the buds I bear,
Rich in their deep unchanging blue;
Or, (as pure faith I would declare,)
Entwined with those of virgin hue.
Think then these blossoms, gentle Fair,
My true esteem would fain impart,
And should you deign the gift to wear,
Ah! place the Giver near your heart.