POETRY OP FLOWERS. 215 
‘ When that, too, shades the trembling groun I, 
Borne down by some tempestuous sky, 
And many a slumbering cottage round 
Startles—how still their hearts will lie! 
‘ Of them who, wrapp’d in earth so cold, 
No more the smiling day shall view. 
Should many a tender tale be told ; 
For many a tender thought is due. 
‘ Hast thou not seen the lover pale, 
When evening brought the pensive hour, 
Step slowly o’er the shadowy vale. 
And stop to pluck the frequent flower ? 
‘ Those flowers he surely meant to strew 
On lost affection's lowly cell, 
Tho’ there, as fond remembrance grew,— 
Forgotten from his hand they fell. 
‘ Has not for thee the fragrant thorn 
Been taught her first rose to resign ? 
With vain but pious fondness borne. 
To deck thy Nancy’s honoured shrine 
‘ ’Tis nature pleading in the breast. 
Fair memory of her works to find ; 
And when to fate she yields the rest. 
She claims the monumental mind. 
