The Poetry of Flowers. 
87 
What though thou boast no splendid hue 
Of Flora’s prouder race? 
To me more fair art thou to view, 
In all thy simple grace: 
Thine innocence and beauty meek, 
More like my Celestina’s cheek, 
Where all the modest virtues play; 
Expression beaming from her eye, 
In cherub smiles of chastity, 
With mild and tempered ray. 
Yet treasures lurk within thy lips, 
To glad the spoiler bee, 
Who not with idle errand sips, 
Or wanton vagrancy. 
Ah ! blest is he who temperance tries, 
Simplicity above disguise, 
And shuns the falser gloss of art ; 
'Tis he extracts a bliss refined, 
Congenial to the virtuous mind, 
The tender feeling heart. 
Thy smiles young innocence invite, 
What time thy lids awake, 
In shadowy lane to taste delight, 
Or mazy, tangled brake. 
The infant troop of rosy hue, 
And gay with health, I seem to view, 
While pleasure lights their laughing eyes ; 
With little hands a wreath combine, 
Their fugitive delights entwine, 
And boast their fragrant prize. 
Ah ! happy breasts ! unknown to pain, 
I would not spoil your joys ; 
