HOSE. 
183 
But never raised its timid eye 
To gaze again upon the sky. 
It withered in the noonday flame ; 
And when the shadows fell, 
The spirit of the evening came, 
But vain its dewy spell. 
The moon gleamed sad, the night breeze sighed 
Above the hapless flower, 
But none who loved its day of pride 
Watched o’er its fading hour. 
The flatterers—they had long been gone > 
It died neglected and alone. 
THE ROSES. 
5'ROM THE DUTCH OP BILDERJiK. 
BOW RING. 
I saw them once blowing, 
While morning was glowing, 
But now are their wither’d leaves strew’d o’er 
the ground, 
For tempests to play on. 
For cold worms to prey on, 
The shame of the garden that triumphs around. 
Their buds which then flourish’d 
With dew-drops were nourished, 
