Then I no more shall court the verdant bay,
But the dry leafless trunk on Golgotha;
And rather strive to gain from thence one thorn, 35
Than all the flourishing wreaths by laureats worn.
Thomas Carew.
LXXXI
THE FLOWER.
How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean
Are thy returns! e’en as the flowers in spring;
To which, besides their own demean,
The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.