FABLES OF FLORA. 
To a green hedge, with vines o’errun, 
She dragged her wretched frame; 
The stars their watches had begun, 
And, like a mountain-flame, 
The red moon rose ; though from the sun 
A glimmering light still came. 
Over the maiden, whore she lay, 
A wild Clematis lmng; 
The breezes, mid its leaves at play, 
Their fitful music sung; 
And on her brow a drooping spray 
Its wreath-like shadow flung. 
She saw its flowers, like gentle stars, 
Around her green couch shine, 
And all o’erhead, like lattice-bars, 
Was wreathed the flexile vine; 
No light above, but glimmering Mars, 
Looked in upon her shrine. 
All night in tranquil rest she lay; 
Aloof the demons stood; 
She seemed to hear them steal away 
In silence to the wood; 
And then she feebly strove to pray_ 
How happy that she could! 
