No purple, scarlet, blue, or gold,
Deck its fair leaves when they unfold.

Born on a cold and wintry night,
Its flowing robes were snowy white;
No vernal zephyrs fan its form--
It often battles with the storm.

It never drank mild summer's dew,
But chilling winds around it blew;
And hoary frost his mantle spread
Upon the little snow-drop's bed.

I love this modest little flower;--
It comes in desolation's hour
The barren landscape's face to cheer,
When none beside it dares appear.

Just like the friend, whose brightest smile
Is spared, our sorrows to beguile;
Who like some angel from the sky,
When needed most, is ever nigh--

To pluck vile slander's envious dart
From out the wounded, bleeding heart,
And raise from earth the drooping head
When all our summer friends are fled.

And shall these humble pages dare
Presume to ask, if they compare