Classic Poem

I

The gentle Primrose of the vale,
Whose tender bloom rude winds assail,
Droops its meek leaves, and scarce sustains
The night's chill snow and beating rains.

II

'Tis past — the morn returns — sweet Spring
Is come — and hills and valleys sing.
But low the gentle Primrose lies,
No more to bloom, no more to rise.