Hail to thy hues! thou lovely flower,
Still shed around thy soft perfume,
Still smile amid the wint'ry hour,
And boast even now a springtide bloom.

In April's bower thy sweets are breath'd,
And June beholds thy blossoms fair;
In Autumn's chaplet thou art wreath'd,
And round December's forehead bare.

The Summer lily sees thee blow,
As high she rears her trembling head;
And Winter boasts his flowers of snow,
A contrast to thy lingering red.

For thee the cuckow pours his voice,
And thou dost see the swallow gay,
The summer thrush bids thee rejoice,
And wint'ry robin's sweeter lay.

Most soft, most lovely dost thou seem,
'Mid parching heat, 'mid nipping frost;
And gathering beauty from each beam
No hue, no grace of thine is lost.

Thus Hope, 'mid life's severest days,
Still smiles, still triumphs o'er despair;
Alike she lives in Pleasure's rays,
And cold Affliction's winter air.

Alike she blooms in Science' bower,
And in the rural cot she glows,
The Poet's and the Lover's flower,
The bosom's everlasting Rose!