Not since the world's first blushing Spring
Hath warmer, truer offering
Than mine, by minstrel, muse, or maid,
Been on thy rose-wreathed altar laid.
May-flower, the first in Flora's band,
I've snatch'd from thy half-open'd hand,
And help'd the little Daisy shake
From her bright head the light snow-flake;
I've watch'd thee while thy crayon spread
The first tint on the Violet's head,
And wrapt with pleasure, scan'd the grace
Thy light touch threw o'er Nature's face--
But more I love thee for thy promise bright,
That Man shall spring, revived from Death's cold, wintry night.