93 
‘ Oh, think of me,’ the Pansy cries, 
And to the sad Nasturtium flies, 
Who ‘ passing still away,’ 
Just lifts her drooping head and sighs; 
While cold and careless by her lies, 
‘Estrangement’ painted in her eyes, 
The Ice-plant — heartless — gay ; 
And now the Yellow Rose behold! 
Her petals soft and slow unfold, 
Inviting 1 smiles again ; ’ 
While the White Jessamin would teach 
A lesson in the ceaseless speech, 
She ever makes to all, to each, 
‘ Oh, do not cause me pain!’ 
While far around her perfumes breathe, 
The Bay her blossoms fair would wreathe, 
In chaplets for the brow; 
Where merit a reward would claim, 
Or Virtue crown some honored name, 
Or genius raise to power and fame, 
Such as her spells avow! 
