’Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone.
O! why, lovely stranger, thus early in bloom?
Art thou here to assure us that summer is come?
The primrose and harebell appear with the spring,
But tidings of summer the young roses bring.
Thou fair gift of nature, I welcome the boon;
Was’t the lark of the morning that ’woke thee so soon?
Yet I weep, thou sweet flow’ret; for soon from the sky
The lark shall repose, where thy leaves withered lie.
O! if beauty could save thee, thou ne’er would’st decay,