April. 
39 
The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield, 
High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield ; 
But, thou, beneath the random bield 
O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field 
U nseen, alane. 
There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 
In humble guise ; 
But, now, the share uptears thy bed, 
And low thou lies ! 
Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! 
By love’s simplicity betrayed, 
And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid 
Low i’ the dust. 
Such is the fate of simple Bard, 
On Life’s rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 
Unskilful he to note the card 
Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 
And whelm him o'er ! 
Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
Who long with wants and woes has striv’n, 
