88 
THE MORAL OF FLOWERS. 
Oh ! teach her hut this, then away, away, 
Where the wine flows free and bright; 
And, instead of the vine and the ivy spray. 
Amid laughter, and dance, and festive lay, 
Oh ! twine, in the reveller’s sight, 
Round the foaming bowl thy poisonous wreath, 
To show him its draught is link’d with death. 
Once more, and thy task is done — yea, go 
To thy last and fittest shrine ; 
Alas! that there should be a human brow, 
Where aught so baneful and false as thou 
May, without polluting, shine ! 
The sceptic — I tremble to breathe his name— 
Thine be the garlands which crown his fame. 
