FABLES OF FLOEA. 
< Nor shall thy wonder wake to see 
Such desert scenes distinction crave ; 
Oft have they been, and oft shall be, 
Truth’s, Honor’s, Valor’s, Beauty’s grave. 
« Where longs to fall that rifled spire, 
As weary of the insulting air; 
The poet’s thought, the warrior’s fire, 
The lover’s sighs are sleeping there. 
< when that, too, shakes the trembling ground, 
Borne down by some tempestuous sky, 
And many a slumbering cottage round 
Startles — how still their hearts will lie! 
‘ Of them, who, wrapt in earth so cold, 
No more the smiling day shall view, 
Should many a tender tale be told ; 
For many a tender thought is due. 
‘ Hast thou not seen some lover pale, 
When evening brought the pensive hour, 
Step slowly o’er the shadowy vale, 
And stop to pluck the frequent flower? 
t Those flowers he surely meant to strew 
On lost aflection’s lowly cell; 
Though there, as fond remembrance grew. 
Forgotten from his hand they fell. 
