9 ° 
Floral Poetry. 
There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sunward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 
And low thou lies ! 
Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade t 
By love’s simplicity betrayed, 
And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 
Low i’ the dust. 
Such is the fate of simple bard, 
On life’s rough ocean, luckless starred ! 
Unskilful he to note the card 
Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 
And whelm him o’er ! 
Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
Who long with wants and woes has striven, 
By human pride or cunning driven, 
To misery’s brink, 
Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, 
He ruined sink ! 
E’en thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate, 
That fate is thine—no distant date; 
