THE DARK-FLOWERED STOCK-GILT, YFLOWJ*R. 143 
Still if it spare me on my slender stem, 
While round me strewn is many a fairer gem, 
Should I not, then, in meet thanksgiving shed 
My choicest odours when the danger’s fled? 
Mortal! bethink thee—if at close of day 
Both bird and flower their grateful homage pay, 
This in sweet odour, that in tuneful song, 
What thankful strains should flow from human tongue? 
O, think what nobler mercies crown thy days! 
Then be thy life one ceaseless act of praise.’ 
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