The firſt pale bloſſom of th' unripen'd year;
As Flora's breath, by ſome transforming power,
Had chang'd an icicle into a flower:
Its name, and hue, the ſcentleſs plant retains,
And winter lingers in its icy veins.
To theſe ſucceed the violet's duſky blue,
And each inferior flower of fainter hue;
Till riper months the perfect year diſcloſe,
And Flora cries exulting, See my Roſe!
The Muſe invites, my Delia haſte away,
And let us ſweetly waſte the careleſs day.
Here gentle ſummits lift their airy brow;
Down the green ſlope here winds the labouring plow;
Here bath'd by frequent ſhow'rs cool vales are ſeen,
Cloath'd with freſh verdure, and eternal green;
Here ſmooth canals, acroſs th' extended plain,
Stretch their long arms, to join the diſtant main:
