14 FLORA HISTORICA. 



Go bid Eliza contemplate, 



Fair moralist, thy doom ; 

 How soon, alas ! thy cruel fate 



Condemns thee to the tomb. 



Though clothed thou art in lilied vest, 

 And delicate 's thy charm ; 



Though of a thousand sweets possest, 

 Thou canst not Fate disarm. 



Then, Snowdrop, catch the fleeting gale, 

 While zephyr gently woos ; 



And bid Eliza now bewail 

 Her vernal prime to lose. 



Ah ! let her dread that season past, 

 While youthful hours beguile ; 



Too soon, alas ! the winter's blast 

 Will steal her dimpled smile. 



