am 
Splendour. 
Floral apostles! that in dewy splendour 
Weep without sin and blush without a crime, 
O, may I deeply learn and ne’er surrender 
Your love sublime! 
Horace (Smith, 
Is she not more than painting can express, 
Or youthful poets fancy when they love? 
JIowe. 
Moan, oh ye Autumn Winds! 
Summer has fled, 
The flowers have closed their tender leaves and die; 
The lily’s gracious head 
All low must lie, 
Because the gentle Summer now is dead. 
Grieve, oh ye Autumn Winds! 
Summer lies low; 
The rose’s trembling leaves will soon be shed, 
For she that loved her so, 
Alas, is dead! 
And one by one her loving children go. 
