On Seeing a Bank of Primroses, in January, Covered with Snow

These forward roses spread an infant bloom, Lavish at once of beauty and perfume; Their yellow leaves with fragrant pride display, And smile all lovely on the rising day; Ambitious seem to deck some virgin's breast, And there for ever lay their fading sweets to rest. But, cruel chance! keen Eastern gales arise, And drive the Winter through the hazy skies; These pretty flowers can now no longer glow, Pierc'd with the frost, and buried under snow; If still relentless storms persist to beat, And chilling vapours damp the genial heat; There 's no relief, these gaudy sweets must die, And all their pregnant charms in long oblivion lie. But should the sun, in majesty serene, Adorn the grove, and paint the burnish'd green; Each drooping rose its mournful head would rear, Bright as the heavens, and like the morning fair; While purple honours crown the well-distinguish'd year.