SONGS AND CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS. 24$ 



Beneath the very burthen 

 Of planet-pressing ocean, 



We wash our smiling cheeks in peace a thought 

 for meek devotion. 



Tears of Phoebu3 missings 



Of Cytherea's kissings, 



Have in us been found, and wise men find them 

 still; 



Drooping grace unfurls 



Still Hyacinthus' curls, 

 And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill : 



Thy red lip, Adonis, 



Still is wet with morning ; 

 And the step, that bled for thee, the rosy brier 

 adorning. 



O ! true things are fables, 

 Fit for sagest tables, 

 And the flowers are true things yet no fables 



they; 



Fables were not more 

 Bright, nor loved of yore 

 Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every 

 old pathway : 



