flora’s dial. 165 
SDmmber 11. 
COCKLE. — Absence. 
Parted from thee, as one entombed am I; 
Sweet Summer’s balmy blooms no longer cheer; 
Nor nature’s minstrelsy delights mine ear, 
The very morning sun shines drearily. 
But when soft slumber seals each living eye, 
And sheeted ghosts are from the church-yard 
streaming, 
Then does my spirit, disenthralled and dreaming, 
O’er hill and vale to thy dear presence fly. 
XJhland. 
EDmmber 12. 
COREANDER. — Hidden merit. 
Let other bards of angels sing, 
Bright suns without a spot; 
But thou art no such perfect thing, 
Rejoice that thou art not. 
True beauty dwells in deep retreats, 
Whose veil is unremoved ; 
Till heart with heart in concord beats, 
And the lover is beloved. 
Wordsworth. 
