fOETRT OF FLOWERS. 
213 
And there Vimiria waves 
Her light and feathery bowers, 
’Mid russet-shaded leaves, 
Where robin sits and grieves 
Your hasting death, sweet flowers ! 
He sings your requiem all the day. 
And mourns because ye pass away. 
THE WALL-FLOWER. 
‘ Why loves my flower, the sweetest flower 
That swells the golden breast of May, 
Thrown rudely o’er the ruin’d tower, 
To waste the solitary day ? 
‘ Why, when the mead, the spicy vale, 
The grove and genial garden call. 
Will she her fragrant scents exhale 
Unheeded on the lonely wall 1 
For never sure was beauty born. 
To live in death’s deserted shade ! 
Come lovely flower, my banks adorn. 
My banks for life and beauty made. ’ 
Thus ptfy wak’d the tender thought; 
And by her sweet persuasion led. 
To seize the hermit flower I sought. 
And bear her from her stony bed. 
