32 
FABLES OF FLORA. 
When calling from their weary height 
On western waves his beams to rest, 
Still there she sought the parting sight, 
And there she turned her golden breast. 
But soon as night’s invidious shade 
Afar his lovely looks had borne, 
With folded leaves and drooping head, 
Full sore she grieved, as one forlorn. 
Such duty in a flower displayed, 
The holy sisters smiled to see, 
Forgave the pagan rites it paid, 
And loved its ford idolatry. 
But painful still, though meant for kind, 
The praise that falls on Envy’s ear! 
O’er the dim window’s arch entwined, 
The cankered Ivy chanced to hear. 
And 1 See,’ she cried, ‘ that specious flower, 
Whose flattering bosom courts the sun, 
The pageant of a gilded hour, 
The convent’s simple hearts hath won! 
‘ Obsequious meanness, ever prone 
To watch the patron’s turning eye! 
No will, no motion of its own! 
’T is this they love, for this they sigh. 
