7G 
MORAL OF FLOWERS. 
I pity thee, for thy wasted bloom, 
For thy glory’s fleeting hour, 
For the desert place, thy living tomb— 
O lonely, loneliest flower ! 
I said—but a low voice made reply, 
“ Lament not for the flower ! 
Though its blossoms all unmark’d must die, 
They have had a glorious dower. 
u Though it blooms afar from the minstrel’s way 
And the paths where lovers tread ; 
Yet strength and hope, like an inborn day, 
By its odors have been shed. 
i( Yes ! dews more sweet than ever fell 
O’er island of the blest, 
Were shaken forth, from its purple bell, 
On a suffering human breast. 
(t A wanderer came, as a stricken deer, 
O’er the waste of burning sand, 
He bore the wound of an Arab spear, 
He fled from a ruthless band. 
