FABLES OF FLORA. 67 
He wore a tliin and tattered garb, 
And o’er his eye a sorrow brooded; 
He looked like one who hated men, 
For something he himself had been — 
A wretch by appetite deluded. 
Roused by the stirring of the vine, 
Through which the fragrant breezes stole, 
He lifted up his haggard eyes, 
And thus, with intermingled sighs, 
Poured forth the anguish of his soul. 
‘ Thou tree of evil, cursed vine! 
How gayly up the lofty tree 
Thou climbest, with that poison blood 
Pervading every leaf and bud, 
Which early made a wretch of me! 
‘ O, but for thee, I might have stood 
Among the noblest of my race ! 
And, strong in my own virtue then, 
I would have braved the scorn of men, 
And met the lordliest face to face! 
‘ Now, like a living curse, I walk 
The earth that shrinks beneath my tread ; 
And she who long hath loved me best, 
Who bears my children on her breast, 
Roams thro’ the streets, and begs for bread.’ 
