Oft hath the fate of Genius drawn the sigh From feeling hearts, and bid the hallow'd tear Of sympathy to tremble in the eye Which saw that flower of Paradise appear, Springing beneath our cold and cloudy sky, Blooming awhile, then withering, as the blast— The wintry blast of Poverty swept by, Or chill Misfortune's fingers o'er it past. The lovely plant in ruin strews the plain— Its beauties fled, but not extinct; they rise, Foster'd by warmer suns and brighter skies, In climes where Spring eternal holds his reign. There, on the banks of joy's o'erflowing river, In full perfection it shall bloom forever.
