VERSES
TO
OUR
OWN
FLOWERY
KIRTLED
SPRING
.
WELCOME
,
sweet
time
of
buds
and
bloom
,
renewing
The
earliest
objects
of
delight
,
and
wooing
The
notice
of
the
grateful
heart
!
for
then
Long-hidden
,
beauteous
friends
are
seen
again
;
From
the
cleft
soil
,
like
babes
from
cradle
peeping
,
At
the
glad
light
,
where
soundly
they've
been
sleeping
;
Like
chickens
in
their
downy
coats
,
just
freeing
From
the
chipp'd
shell
,
their
new-found
active
being
;
Like
spotted
butterfly
,
its
wings
up-rearing
,
Half
from
the
bursting
chrysalis
appearing
.
Sweet
season
,
so
bedight
,
so
gay
,
so
kind
,
Right
welcome
to
the
sight
and
to
the
mind
!
Now
many
a
"
thing
that
pretty
is
"
delays
The
wanderer's
steps
beneath
the
sun's
soft
rays
.
Gay
daffodils
,
bent
o'er
the
watery
gleam
,
Doubling
their
flickered
image
in
the
stream
;
The
woody
nook
where
bells
of
brighter
blue
Have
clothed
the
ground
in
heaven's
etherial
hue
;
The
lane's
high
sloping
bank
,
where
pale
primrose
With
hundreds
of
its
gentle
kindred
blows
;
And
speckled
daisies
that
on
uplands
bare
Their
round
eyes
opening
,
scatter
gladness
there
.
Man
looks
on
nature
with
a
grateful
smile
,
And
thinks
of
Nature's
bounteous
Lord
the
while
.
Now
urchins
range
the
brake
in
joyous
bands
,
With
new-called
nosegays
in
their
dimpled
hands
.
The
cottage
maid
her
household
task-work
cheats
In
mead
or
glen
to
pick
the
choicest
sweets
,
With
skilful
care
preserved
for
Sunday
morn
,
Her
bosom's
simple
kerchief
to
adorn
.
And
even
the
beldame
,
as
with
sober
tread
,
She
takes
her
sunning
in
the
grassy
mead
,
Stoops
down
with
eager
look
and
finds
,
well
pleased
,
Such
herbs
,
as
in
a
chest
or
bible
squeezed
,
In
former
days
were
deemed
,
by
folks
of
sense
,
A
fragrant
wholesome
virtue
to
dispense
,
And
oft
on
raftered
roof
,
in
bunches
strung
,
With
other
winter
stores
were
duly
hung
.
But
not
alone
in
simple
scenes
like
these
,
Thy
beauteous
offspring
our
soothed
senses
please
;
I'
the
city's
busy
streets
,
by
rich
men's
doors
,
On
whose
white
steps
the
flower-girl
sets
her
stores
,
In
wicker
basket
grouped
to
lure
the
sight
,
They
stop
and
tempt
full
many
a
wistful
wight
.
Flowers
though
they
be
by
artful
culture
bred
,
Upon
the
suburb-seedsman's
crowded
bed
,
By
fetid
manure
cherished
,
gorgeous
,
bright
,
Like
civic
madams
dressed
for
festive
night
,
—
Anemonies
of
crimson
,
purple
,
yellow
,
And
tulips
streaked
with
colours
rich
and
mellow
,
Brown
wallflowers
and
jonquils
of
golden
glare
,
In
dapper
posies
tied
like
shop-man's
ware
,
Yet
still
they
whisper
something
to
the
heart
,
Which
feelings
kind
and
gentle
thoughts
impart
.
Gay
sight
!
that
oft
a
touch
of
pleasure
gives
Even
to
the
saddest
,
rudest
soul
that
lives
—
Gay
sight
!
the
passing
carman
grins
thereat
,
And
sticks
a
purchased
posie
in
his
hat
,
And
cracks
his
whip
and
treads
the
rugged
streets
With
waggish
air
and
jokes
with
all
he
meets
.
The
sickly
child
from
nursery
window
spies
The
tempting
show
,
and
for
a
nosegay
cries
,
Which
placed
in
china
mug
,
by
linnet's
cage
,
Will
for
a
time
his
listless
mind
engage
.
The
dame
precise
,
moves
at
the
flower-girl's
cry
,
Laying
her
patch-work
or
her
netting
by
,
And
from
the
parlour
window
casts
her
eye
,
Then
sends
across
the
way
her
tiny
maid
;
And
presently
on
mantle-piece
displayed
,
Between
fair
ornaments
of
china
ware
,
Small
busts
and
lackered
parrots
stationed
there
,
Tulips
,
anemonies
and
wallflowers
shine
,
And
strangely
with
their
new
compeers
combine
Each
visitor
with
wonder
to
excite
,
Who
looks
and
smiles
,
and
lauds
the
motley
sight
.
That
even
to
the
prison's
wretched
thrall
,
Those
simple
gems
of
nature
will
recall
What
soothes
the
sadness
of
his
dreary
state
,
Yon
narrow
window
,
through
whose
iron
grate
A
squalid
countenance
is
dimly
traced
,
Gazing
on
flowers
in
broken
pitcher
placed
Upon
the
sooty
sill
and
withering
there
,
Sad
emblems
of
himself
,
most
piteously
declare
.
Of
what
in
gentle
lady's
curtained
room
,
On
storied
stands
and
gilded
tripods
bloom
,
The
richest
,
rarest
flowers
of
every
clime
,
Whose
learned
names
suit
not
my
simple
rhyme
,
I
speak
not
!
lovely
as
they
are
,
we
find
They
visit
more
the
senses
than
the
mind
.
Their
nurture
comes
not
from
the
clouds
of
heaven
,
But
from
a
painted
watering-pot
is
given
;
And
,
in
return
for
daily
care
,
with
faint
And
sickly
sweetness
hall
and
chamber
taint
.
I
will
not
speak
of
those
;
we
feel
and
see
They
have
no
kindred
,
our
own
Spring
!
with
thee
.
Welcome
,
sweet
season
!
though
with
rapid
pace
Thy
course
is
run
,
and
we
can
scarcely
grace
Thy
joyous
coming
with
a
grateful
cheer
,
Ere
loose-leaved
flowers
and
leaflets
shrunk
and
sere
,
And
flaccid
bending
stems
,
sad
bodings
!
tell
We
soon
must
bid
our
fleeting
friend
farewell
.