POETE,Y OF FLOWERS. 
81 
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 starr’d ! 
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 and cunning driven 
To misery’s brink. 
Till, wrenched of every stay but heaven, 
He ruined sink! 
Even thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate, 
That fate is thine—no distant date : 
Stern ruin’s ploughshare drives elate. 
Full on thy bloom. 
Till crushed beneath the furrow’s weight 
Shall be thy doom! 
121 
F 
