On seeing one in full bloom in January.
Sweet primrose, beguiling
With the warmth of deceit,
Was the sunbeam so smiling
Which sought thy retreat ;
Thou didst hasten to meet him,
And his smile to repay ;
Ere thou fondly could'st greet him
He had melted away.

The false smile of the morning
Gave thy loveliness birth,
But the night tempest scorning
Thee, frail gem of the earth,
Will unfold his fierce pinion
In the black midnight hour,
And assert his dominion.
Like a tyrant in power.

When the lark shall awaken
His song of delight,
And the hawthorn be shaken
By the spring zephyrs' flight—
When the bee from his slumber
Shall arise without dread,
Thee I sadly shall number.
Sweet flower, with the dead.

Thus my soul's embryo pleasures.
The gems of my heart,
And young joy's blooming treasures,
Prematurely depart ;
O the fond hopes I cherish,
Earth's cold blasts destroy,
And they one by one perish,
'Ere their season of joy.