LOVE AND THE SPRING-FLOWER.

‘ Tis pity, ev'ry maiden knows,

Just as she cools, Love warmer grows;

But, if the chill be too severe,

Trust me, he'll wither in a tear.

Thus will the spring-flow'r bud and blow,

Wrapp'd round in many a fold of snow;

But, if an ice-wind pierce the sky,

‘ Twill drop upon its bed, and die!