Thou rear’st thy beauteous head, sweet flow’r
Gemm’d by the soft and vernal show’r;
Its drops still round thee shine:
The florist views thee with delight;
And, if so precious in his sight,
Oh! what art thou in mine?
For she, who nurs’d thy drooping form
When Winter pour’d her snowy storm,
Has oft consol’d me too;
For me a fost’ring tear has shed,—
She has reviv’d my drooping head,
And bade me bloom anew.
When adverse Fortune bade us part,
And grief depress’d my aching heart,
Like yon reviving ray,
She from behind the cloud would move,
And with a stolen look of love
Would melt my cares away.
Sweet flow’r! supremely dear to me,
Thy lovely mistress blooms in thee,
For, tho’ the garden’s pride,
In beauty’s grace and tint array’d,
Thou seem’st to court the secret shade,
Thy modest form to hide.
Oh! crown’d with many a roseate year,
Bless’d may she be who plac’d thee here,
Until the tear of love
Shall tremble in the eye to find
Her spirit, spotless and refin’d,
Borne to the realms above!
And oft for thee, sweet child of spring!
The Muse shall touch her tend’rest string;
And, as thou rear’st thine head,
She shall invoke the softest air,
Or ask the chilling storm to spare,
And bless thy humble bed.