FABLES OF FLORA. 137 
The day-god’s rolling car of fire 
Had kindled with its golden sheen 
Gray mountain-peak and city spire, 
And lit the forest-arbors green. 
Earth, bathed in tides of lucid air, 
Seemed smiling on the bending sky j 
And dewdrops, on the flowerets fair, 
Shone bright as tears in beauty’s eye. 
Among the trailing vines which clung 
In graceful wreaths round Flora’s bower, 
A Morning Glory proudly hung, — 
A lovely, but a haughty flower. 
On lowlier plants it looked with scorn, 
Though blooming meekly by its side; 
It was alone the nobly born, 
The flower of beauty and of pride. 
Fair Flora sought her green retreat, 
The bower where grew her blossoms rare j 
The Morning Flower, her eye to greet, 
With dewdrops bright was blooming there 
It hoped the goddess of the flowers 
Would make it evermore her own,- 
The chosen plant in all her bowers, 
And near her vine-encircled throne. 
