fables OF FLORA. oJ 
FABLE XVII. 
The Clematis Bower. 
She had walked many a weary mile, 
Through many a strange, lone place ; 
And now, beside the meadow stile, 
She slacked her feeble pace. 
O, sad it was to see no smile 
Upon so young a face. 
Miles from her mother’s breast away, 
And further from her heart! 
O, clasp thy pallid hands and pray, 
Poor outcast as thou art! 
It will be many a weary day 
E’er thou and sorrow part! 
Some marks of maiden guilt and shame 
The hapless wanderer bore, 
And sickness racked her tender frame 
But racked her poor heart more. 
She wandered without hope or aim, 
For hopes and aims were o’er. 
i O, I must rest! ’ the maiden said, 
1 For night is almost here ; 
I think I hear the hollow tread 
Of demons gathering near! 
Each night they haunt my lonely bed, 
And howl within mine ear 
