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16 The firt pale bloom of th' unripen'd year; As 's breath, by ome transforming power, Had chang'd an icicle into a flower: Its name, and hue, the centles plant retains, And winter lingers in its icy veins. To thee ucceed the violet's duky blue, And each inferior flower of fainter hue; Till riper months the perfect year dicloe, And cries exulting, See my Roe!

&emsp;The Mue invites, my hate away, And let us weetly wate the careles day. Here gentle ummits lift their airy brow; Down the green lope here winds the labouring plow; Here bath'd by frequent how'rs cool vales are een, Cloath'd with freh verdure, and eternal green; Here mooth canals, acros th' extended plain, Stretch their long arms, to join the ditant main: The