FABLES Off FLOBA. 
‘ Has not for thee the fragrant thorn 
Been taught her first rose to resign? 
With vain but pious fondness borne, 
To deck thy loved one’s honored shrine ? 
‘ ’T is Nature, pleading in the breast, 
Fair memory of her works to find ; 
And when to fate she yields the rest,’ 
She claims the monumental mind. 
‘ Wh y> else > the o’ergrown paths of time 
Would thus the lettered sage explore, 
With pain these crumbling ruins climb, 
And on the doubtful sculpture pore? 
W by seeks he, with unwearied toil, 
Through death’s dim walks to urge his way? 
Reclaim his long-asserted spoil, 
And lead oblivion into day ? 
‘ ’T is Nature prompts, by toil or fear 
Unmoved, to range through death’s domain : 
The tender parent loves to hear 
Her children’s story told again. 
‘ Treat not with scorn his thoughtful hours, 
If haply near these haunts he stray; 
Nor take the fair, enlivening flowers 
That bloom to cheer his lonely way.’ 
