‘Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets,
Where Flora is still in her prime;
A fortress to which she retreats,
From the cruel assaults of the clime.
While earth wears a mantle of snow,
These pinks are as fresh and as gay,
As the fairest and sweetest that blow
On the beautiful bosom of May.
See how they have safely surviv’d
The frowns of a sky so severe!
Such Mary’s true love that has liv’d
Through many a turbulent year.
The charms of the late-blowing rose,
Seem grac’d with a livelier hue,
And the winter of sorrow best shows
The truth of a friend, such as you.