FABLES OF FLORA. 
‘ Shorn of my sacred honors now, 
A regal stranger, all unknown, 
I watch, with sad and crownless brow, 
Aly leaves with meanest moss o’ergrown!’ 
The cool, moist moss, a veil of green, 
The Lily’s roots had overrun; 
It loved the flower, and longed to screen 
Its tender greenness from the sun. 
But now, rebuked and scorned, it turned 
Its shelter from the plant that hour; 
On the moist roots the sunshine burned— 
Alas, for Nile’s imperial flower! 
Poor plant! no more her blossoms white 
May wave in queenly grace and pride; 
Scorched in the summer-day’s long light, 
The scornful stranger drooped and died. 
Still watching round, with dewy eye, 
The mournful moss, with pity moved, 
Saw how the ungrateful sadly die, 
And crept to shroud the flower it loved. 
Elizabeth If. Whittier. 
