THE sullen winter nearly spent,

Queen Flora to her garden went

To call the flowers from their long sleep,

The year’s glad festivals to keep:

And one by one each making bold

Their silken vesture to unfold,

And peeping forth to meet the sun,

The long procession is begun:—

The snowdrops, first upon the scene,

White-crested braved King Frost’s demesne:

The little Crocus reaches up

To catch a sunbeam in his cup:

The Daffodil his trumpet blows,

Anemones rode out the gale,

Frail wind-flowers fluttered, red and pale:

The Violet and the Primrose dame,

With modest mien but hearts a-flame:

Green kirtled from the brooklet’s fold,

The rustic maid Marsh Marigold:

The “Lady smocks all silver white”

The milkmaids of the meadows bright,

Where shining Buttercups abound

Among the Cowslips on the ground.

Here, Lords and Ladies of the wood,

With shaking spear and riding hood:

Black knight-at-arms, the white-plumed Thorn;

In pomp the Crown Imperial borne.

While Tulips lift the banner red,

Or fill their cups with fire instead:

Sweet Hyacinths their bells did ring,

To swell the music of the spring.

With blazoned pennons from each spear

The Iris and the Flag appear:

Sweet masking May, in white or red,

And Chaucer’s Daisy, small and sweet—

“Si douce est la Margarete.”

The little Lilies of the Vale,

White ladies delicate and pale.

Great Peonies in crimson pride,

And budding ones in green that hide:

Fair Columbines that drew the car

Of Venus from her distant star:

And Love’s own flower, the blushing Rose,

The Queen of all the garden close:

And Roses from the hedgerow wild,

Behind their thorns that faintly smiled:

And from the cressy brook’s green side,

“Forget-me-Not,” a small voice cried.

Here stately Lilies pale and proud,

In vesture pure as summer cloud;

Or, burning like an orange flame,

With torches borne aloft they came.

The Monk that wears the Hood of blue,

The Belles of Canterbury, too:

Wide Oxeyes in the meads that gaze

Ere Evening Primrose lights her lamp,

A beacon to the garden camp:

When Lilies of the Day are done,

And sunk the golden westering sun:

Fresh Pinks cast incense on the air,

In fluttering garments fringed and rare.

Their cousin from the corn in blue;

Corn Marigold of golden hue.

The fond Convolvulus still clings,

The Honeysuckle spreads his wings:

The Hollyhock his standard high,

Rears proudly to the autumn sky:

The blazing Sunflower, black and bold,

Burns yet to win the sunset’s gold,

That, reddening on the Triton’s spear

Foretells the waning of the year:

When Lilies, turned to Tigers, blaze

Amid the garden’s tangled maze;

Where still in triumph, stiff with gold,

The rich Chrysanthemums unfold;

Ere doth the floral pageant close

With one last flower—a Christmas Rose.