The painted Tulip comes, and Daisy fair,
And o’er the brook the fond Narcissus waves
Her golden cup—her image loving there.
Those early flowers their glowing tributes bring
To weave a chaplet round the brow of Spring.
The sultry sun of June looks down, and then
Comes forth the lovely rose, the garden’s pride,
To herald summer over glade and glen,
O’er wild and waste, o’er mead and mountain side:
Proudly she rears her crest on high, the vain