214 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
I sought—but sudden on my ear 
A voice in hollow murmurs broke, 
And smote my ear with holy fear— 
The Genius of the ruin spoke. 
' From thee be far th’ ungentle deed, 
The honours of the dead to spoil, 
Or take the sole remaining meed, 
The flower that crowns the former toil! 
* Nor deem that flower the garden’s foe, 
Or fond to grace this barren shade: 
’Tis nature tells her to bestow 
Her honours on the lonely dead. 
‘ For this, obedient zephyrs bear 
Her light seeds round yon turret’s mould. 
And undispers’d by tempests there. 
They rise in vegetable gold. 
‘ Nor shall thy wonder wake to see 
Such desert scenes distinction crave ; 
Oft have they been, and oft shall bo 
Truth’s, honour’s, valour’s, beauty’s grave. 
‘ Where longs to fall that rifted spire, 
As weary of th’ insulting air; 
The poet’s thought, the warrior’s fire, 
The lover’s sighs are sleeping there. 
