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To A CrocusEdit

An' so ye ‘ve oped your leaves at last—
I ‘ve often pitied ye, when fast
The drivin’ snaw has o'er ye past,
Puir bonnie thing,
Ye dared too soon the moody blast,
This damp cauld spring.

Ye ‘ve lifted up your gou'den head,
Too soon from off its wintry bed,
When late the faithless sunshine shed,
A saft warm gleam,
Then left ye, ere your leaves could spread,
Beneath its beam.

Sic’ is the hapless doom of those
Round whom her chain stern slavery throws,
Wha, born to naught but wrongs and woes,
An’ mony a tear,
Find storms and gloom around them close,
In life's young year.

But o'er ye now the brightening sky
Is bending wi’ a milder eye,
A safter breeze your buds will dry,
An’ fan your bloom;
O'er them oppression's clouds still lie
In murky gloom.

Yet e'en for them, a feeble light
Seems breaking o'er the horizon's night,
Distant, and faint, yet palely bright,
Wi’ hope's blest beam,
Telling that soon across their sight
'T will broadly gleam.