To A Primrose

The first seen in the season

Nitens et roboris expers Turget et insolida est: et spe delectat.

Ovid, Metam. [xv.203].

Thy smiles I note, sweet early Flower, That peeping from thy rustic bower The festive news to earth dost bring, A fragrant messenger of Spring.

But, tender blossom, why so pale? Dost hear stern Winter in the gale? And didst thou tempt the ungentle sky To catch one vernal glance and die?

Such the wan lustre Sickness wears When Health's first feeble beam appears; So languid are the smiles that seek To settle on the care-worn cheek,

When timorous Hope the head uprears, Still drooping and still moist with tears, If, through dispersing grief, be seen Of Bliss the heavenly spark serene.

And sweeter far the early blow, Fast following after storms of Woe, Than (Comfort's riper season come) Are full-blown joys and Pleasure's gaudy bloom.