SONGS AND CHORUS OF THE FLOWERS. 
249 
Beneath the very burthen 
Of planet-pressing ocean, 
We wash our smiling cheeks in peace—a thought 
for meek devotion. 
Tears of Phoebus—missings 
Of Cytherea’s hissings, 
Have in us been found, and wise men find them 
still; 
Drooping grace unfurls 
Still Hyacinthus’ curls, 
And Narcissus loves himself in the selfish rill: 
Thy red lip, Adonis, 
Still is wet with morning ; 
And the step, that bled for thee, the rosy brier 
adorning. 
O ! true things are fables, 
Fit for sagest tables, 
And the flowers are true things—yet no fables 
they; 
Fables were not more 
Bright, nor loved of yore— 
Yet they grew not, like the flowers, by every 
old pathway: 
