TEE FOETRY OF FLOWERS. 215 
THE HELIOTROPE. 
There is a flower, whose modest eye 
Is turn’d wilh looks of light and love, 
Who breathes her softest, sweetest sigh, 
Whene’er the sun is bright above. 
Let clouds obscure, or darkness veil, 
Her fond idolatry is fled; 
Her sighs no more their sweets exhale, 
The loving eye is cold and dead. 
Canst thou not trace a moral here, 
False flatterer of the prosperous hour f 
Let but an adverse cloud appear, 
And thou art faithless as the flower. 
ARMOUR OF THE ROSE. 
Young Love, rambling through the wood. 
Found me in my solitude, 
Bright with dew and freshly blown, 
And trembling to the Zephyr’s sighs; 
But as he stoop’d to gaze upon 
The living gem with raptured eyes, 
It chanced a bee was busy there, 
Searching for its fragrant fare • 
