SONGS AND CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS. 247 



Ey'n the terror, poison, 

 Hath its plea for blooming ; 

 Life it gives to reverent lips, though death to 

 the presuming. 



And oh ! our sweet soul-taker, 



That thief, the honey-maker, 

 What a house hath he, by the thymy glen ! 



In his talking rooms 



How the feasting fumes, 

 Till the gold cups overflow to the mouths of men ! 



The butterflies come aping 



Those fine thieves of ours, 

 And flutter round our rifled tops, like tickled 

 flowers with flowers. 



See those tops, how beauteous ! 



What fair service duteous 

 Round some idol waits, as on their lord the Nine 



Elfin court 'twould seem ; 



And taught, perchance, that dream 

 Which the old Greek mountain dreamt, upon 

 nights divine. 



