80 
THE MORAL OF FLOWERS. 
Hark ! how the fresh breeze bears along 
To heaven, wide nature’s matin song. 
But what is here ? The pimpernel 
Drooping with close-shut eye ; 
True sign, so village sages tell, 
Of storm and tempest nigh. 
But sure such bright and glorious sky 
Shall know no cloud to-day, 
Oh ! then, thy darkling prophecy 
Give to the winds away. 
And own, whilst thou yon heavens dost view. 
For once thou hast not read them true. 
Despite my taunt, the prescient flower 
Still closed its petals bright, 
And soon the storm, with voice of power, 
Show’d its forebodings right. 
’Tis ever thus — some sudden blight. 
When most we dream of joy. 
Does on the shining prospect light 
To mar it and destroy. 
Oh! when like this poor flower, shall I 
Discern aright life’s changing sky ? 
