54 June. 
SONNET. 
Written at the Close of Spring. 
The garlands fade that Spring so lately wove ; 
Each simple flower, which she had nurs'd in dew, 
Anemones, that spangled every grove, 
The primrose wan, and harebell, mildly blue. 
No more shall violets linger in the dell, 
Or purple orchis variegate the plain, 
Till Spring again shall call forth every bell, 
And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. 
Ah, poor humanity ! so frail, so fair, 
Are the fond visions of thy early day, 
Till tyrant passion and corrosive care 
Bid all thy fairy colours fade away ! 
Another May new buds and flowers shall bring : 
Ah ! why has happiness no second spring ? 
Charlotte Smith. 
THE MOSS ROSE. 
The Angel of the flowers, one day, 
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay ; 
That spirit to whose charge 'tis given 
To bathe young buds in dews of Heaven. 
Awaking from his light repose, 
The angel whispered to the rose : 
