7G MORAL OF FLOWERS. 



I pity thee, for thy wasted bloom, 



For thy glory's fleeting hour, 

 For the desert place, thy living tomb 



O lonely, loneliest flower ! 



I said but a low voice made reply, 



" Lament not for the flower ! 

 Though its blossoms all unmark'd must die, 



They have had a glorious dower. 



tr 



" Though it bLooms afar from the minstrel's way 

 And the paths where lovers tread ; 



Yet strength and hope, like an inborn day, 

 By its odors have been shed. 



II Yes ! dews more sweet than ever fell 

 O'er island of the blest, 



Were shaken forth, from its purple bell, 

 On a suffering human breast. 



< A wanderer came, as a stricken deer, 



O'er the waste of burning sand, 

 He bore the wound of an Arab spear, 



He fled from a ruthless band. 



