22 
FABLES OF FLORA. 
‘ For never, sure, was beauty bom 
To live in death’s deserted shade! 
Come, lovely flower, my banks adorn, 
My banks for life and beauty made.’ 
Thus Pity waked the tender thought, 
And, by her sweet persuasion led, 
To seize the hermit-flower I sought, 
And bear her from her stony bed. 
I sought — but sudden on mine ear, 
A voice in hollow murmurs broke, 
And smote my heart with holy fear; 
The Genius of the rain spoke. 
‘ From thee be far the ungentle deed, 
The honors of the dead to spoil, 
Or take the sole remaining meed, 
The flower that crowns their former toil. 
‘ Nor deem that flower the garden’s foe, 
Or fond to grace this barren shade ; 
’T is Nature tells her to bestow 
Her honors on the lonely dead. 
‘ For this, obedient zephyrs bear 
Her light seeds round yon turret’s mould, 
And, undispersed by tempests there, 
They rise in vegetable gold. 
