THE EARLY FROST. 81 



Good bye, my pretty flowering Bean, that with 



a right good will, 

 O er casement, arch and trellis went climbing, 



climbing still, 

 Till the stern destroyer marked thee, and in 



his bitter ire, 

 Quenched out thy many scarlet spikes that 



glowed like living fire. 



Pale, pale Snowberry, all is gone ; I would it 

 were not so, 



Methinks the Woodbine near thee hath felt a 

 lighter woe ; 



Lean, lean upon her sheltering arm, thy latest 

 pang to take, 



And yield to autumn s stormy will, till happi 

 er seasons wake. 



Coarse Marigold, in days of yore, I scorned thy 



tawny face, 

 But since my plants are frail and few, I ve 



gave thee welcome place, 

 And thou, tall London-pride ! my son from 



weeds preserved thy stem, 

 And, for his sake, I sigh to see thy fallen dia- 



adem. 



