FABLES OF FLORA. 
Poor flower! thy dream of love, tlio> sweet, 
Like other dreams was false and fleet; 
Thy bosom, of its sweets bereft, 
Once more to solitude was left. 
The bee, through many a copse and glen, 
Went singing on his way again; 
Or, roving through the fragrant bowers, 
Wooed and despoiled their fairest flowers. 
Maiden, whose heart delights to move 
And throb at tender words of love, 
Trust him alone who comes to thee 
Enrobed in heavenly purity. 
THE WOODBINE. 
This beautiful vine is so much a favorite with 
the poets, that we have not space to copy half 
their encomiums. We will give only a few great 
authorities; and the humblest flower might well 
lift up its head in pride to be but named by such 
as these. 
I know a bank, whereon the wild thyme blows, 
Where oxlips, and the nodding violet grows; 
Quite overcanopicd with luscious woodbine, 
With sweet mnslc-roses, and with eglantine.’ 
SlIAKSPJtAB*. 
