TO THE COMING FLOWERS.

Awake, dear sleepers, from your wintry tombs; The sun has turned the point of Capricorn, And 'gins to pluck from Winter's wings the plumes Of darkness, and to wind his silver horn For your return. Come to your homes, forlorn In absence of your odours and your faces; Like Rachel weeps for you the reaved morn, As often as she views your empty places, Erewhile the daily scene of her and your embraces. Come, pensile snowdrop, like the earliest star That twinkles on the brow of dusky Night; Come, like the child that peeps from door ajar, With pallid cheek, upon a wasteful sight: And shouldst thou rise when all around is white, The more thou'lt demonstrate the power of God To shield the weak against the arms of might, To strengthen feeble shoulders for their load, And sinking hearts 'mid ills they could not full forebode. Come, crocus cup, the cup where early bees Sip the first nectar of the liberal year, Come and illume our green, as similes Light up the poet's song. And O ye dear March violets, come near, come breathing near! You too, fair primroses, in darksome woods Shine forth, like heaven's constellations clear; And come, ye daisies, throng in multitudes, And whiten hills and meadows with your saintly hoods. Come with thy lilies, May; thy roses, June; Come with your richer hues, Autumnal hours; O tell your mellowing sun, your regal moon, Your dewy drops, your soft refreshing showers, To lift their blessing hands in Flora's bowers, Nor e'en to scorn the bindweed's flossy gold, Nor foxglove's banner hung with purple flowers, Nor solitary heath that cheers the wold, Nor the last daisy shivering in November's cold!