FABLES OF FLORA. 77 
‘ Sorrows are the common lot; 
Where, on all this fair green earth, 
Lives the soul that bears them not — 
Has not borne them from its birth? 
‘ But of all that live in woe, 
None so wretched, half, as I; . 
Wherefore has God made me so, 
Save to curse his name, and die ? 
‘ Not a child with sweet caress 
E’er salutes me in its play, 
But with terror and distress 
I the gentle deed repay. 
‘ Not a maiden near me springs, 
In her wild and careless sport, 
But with subtle, poisonous stings, 
I the playful touch retort. 
‘ So, repulsing all I love, 
Giving pain where I would bless, 
Who can blame me, if I prove 
Impious in my wretchedness ? ’ 
‘ Nay,’ I whispered in reply, 
‘ Question not the love of Heaven; 
But, with courage firm and high, 
Bear whate’er of ill is given. 
