The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
BALLADE ON THE VIOLET.
Sweete infant of the fielde, myne eye
Doth joye thy modest form to spy,
For thou goode news doth say;
How winter, with his horrid yell,
Hath bid at laste his rude farewell,
And borne his blasts away.
Doth joye thy modest form to spy,
For thou goode news doth say;
How winter, with his horrid yell,
Hath bid at laste his rude farewell,
And borne his blasts away.
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While Wynter his wilde rule did spread,
Thou couldst not show thy tender head,
But from his rage didst hide;
And golden cup, and primrose pale,
Did peeping tremble in their vale,
And eke the daisie pied.
Thou couldst not show thy tender head,
But from his rage didst hide;
And golden cup, and primrose pale,
Did peeping tremble in their vale,
And eke the daisie pied.
The surly wight your robes had torne,
And on his wings of tempest borne,
And scatter'd through the skies;
But now the gentle Zephyr's breath
Doth whisper, ‘There's no dread of death,’
And bids you fearless rise.
And on his wings of tempest borne,
And scatter'd through the skies;
But now the gentle Zephyr's breath
Doth whisper, ‘There's no dread of death,’
And bids you fearless rise.
Sweet is thy lot, O little flower!
Like man thou dost not life devour,
Well pleas'd on dews to dine—
Of Heaven's pure balm to make thy fayre:
What pity 'tis we cannot share
An innocence like thine.
Like man thou dost not life devour,
Well pleas'd on dews to dine—
Of Heaven's pure balm to make thy fayre:
What pity 'tis we cannot share
An innocence like thine.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |