Sweet, uncultivated blossom, Reared in Spring's refreshing dews, Dear to every gazer's bosom, Fair to every eye that views;-- Opening bud, whose youth can charm us, Thine be many a happy hour: Spreading rose, whose beauties warm us-- Flourish long, my lovely flower. Though pride look disdainful on thee, Scorning scenes so mean as thine, Although fortune frown upon thee, Lovely blossom, ne'er repine: Health unbought is ever with thee, Which their wealth can never gain; Innocence doth garments give thee, Such as fashion apes in vain. When fit time and reason grant thee Leave to quit the parent tree, May some happy hand transplant thee To a station suiting thee. On some lover's faithful bosom May'st thou then thy sweets resign; And may each unfolding blossom Open charms as sweet as thine. Till that time may joys unceasing Thy bard's every wish fulfil. When that's come may joys increasing Make thee blest and happier still. Flourish fair, thou flower of Jessies, Pride of each admiring swain-- Envy of despairing lasses-- Queen of Walkherd's lovely plain. THE TRIUMPHS OF TIME [From "The Champion"] Emblazoned Vapour! Half-eternal Shade! That gathers strength from ruin and decay;-- Emperor of empires! (for the world hath made No substance that dare take thy shade away;) Thy banners nought but victories display: In undisturbed success thou'rt grown sublime: Kings are thy subjects, and their sceptres lay Round thy proud footstool: tyranny and crime Thy serving vassals are. Then hail, victorious Time! The elements that wreck the marble dome Proud with the polish of the artisan-- Bolts that crash shivering through the humble home, Traced with the insignificance of man-- Are architects of thine, and proudly plan Rich monuments to show thy growing prime: Earthquakes that rend the rocks with dreadful span, Lightnings that write in characters sublime, Inscribe their labours all unto the praise of Time. Thy palaces are kingdoms lost to power; The ruins of ten thousand thrones thy throne; Thy crown and sceptre the dismantled tower, A place of kings, yet left to be unknown, Now with triumphing ivy overgrown-- Ivy oft plucked on Victory's brow to shine-- That fades in crowns of kings, preferring stone; It only prospers where they most decline, To flourish o'er their fate, and live alone in thine. Thy dwellings are in ruins made sublime. Impartial Monitor, no dream of fear, No dread of treason for a royal crime, Deters thee from thy purpose: everywhere Thy power is shown: thou art arch-emperor here: Thou soil'st the very crowns with stains and rust; On royal robes thy havoc doth appear; The little moth, to thy proud summons just, Dares scarlet pomp to scorn, and eats it into dust.