IN despite of the cold and the gloom,
To ornament summer's bleak tomb,
Blooms the snowdrop; and lo! at the sight,
Sad Flora is thrilled with delight,
And exults in the moments to come.

In despite of the sneers of the proud,
To garnish my hope's ebon shroud,
Glows thy tear-drop; and lo! I'm possessed
Of Flora's rich feelings, when blest
With the sight of the first of her brood.

But once having granted my fill
Of sympathy's heart-cheering rill,—
Beloved! refrain; it were base,
To sweep yon sweet rose from its vase
That the thistle might blossom at will.