54 
POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
“ Ill-fated, flower at eve to blow,” 
In pity’s simple thought he cries, 
“ Thy bosom must not feel the glow 
Of splendid suns, or smiling skies. 
“ Nor thee, the vagrants of the field, 
The hamlet’s little train behold; 
Their eyes to sweet oppression yield, 
When thine the falling shades unfold. 
“ Nor thee the hasty shepherd heeds, 
When love has fill’d his heart with cares, 
For flowers he rifles all the meads, 
For waking flowers—but thine forbears. 
“ Ah! waste no more that beauteous bloom 
On night’s chill shade, that fragrant breath. 
Let smiling suns those glooms illume ! 
Fair flower, to live unseen is death.” 
Soft as the voice of vernal gales, 
That o’er the bending meadow blow, 
Or streams that steal through even vales, 
And murmur that they move so slow: 
Deep in her unfrequented bower, 
Sweet Philomela pour’d her strain ; 
The bird of eve approved her flower, 
And answer’d thus the anxious swain : 
“ Live unseen! 
By moon-light shades in valleys green, 
Lovely flower, we’ll live unseen. 
