58 
THE MORAL OF FLOWERS. 
I turn’d me thence to where, beneath 
The hedgerow’s verdant shade. 
The lowliest gems of Flora’s wreath 
Their modest charms display’d. 
Lured by its name, one simple flower 
From its meek sisterhood I bore, 
And bade it hasten to impart 
The breathings of a faithful heart, 
And plead — “ Whate’er your future lot, 
In weal or woe—'Forget me not.’” 
