143 
Still if it spare me on my slender stem, 
While round me strewn is many a fairer gem, 
Should I not, then, in meek thanksgiving shed 
My choicest odours when the danger’s fled ? 
Mortal! bethink thee — if at close of day 
Both bird and flower their grateful homage pay, 
This in sweet odour, that in tuneful song, 
What thankful strains should flow from human tongue? 
O think what nobler mercies crown thy days ! 
Then be thy life one ceaseless act of praise.’ 
