I 
36 DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 
Yc arc not missed, fair Flowers. 
MRS. HEMANS. 
Ye are not missed, fair flowers, that late were 
spreading 
The summer’s glow by fount and breezy grot; 
There falls the dew, its fairy favors shedding. 
The leaves dance on, the young birds miss you not. 
Still plays the sparkle o’er the rippling water, 
O, lily! whence thy cup of pearl is gone; 
The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest 
daughter, 
There is no sorrow in the wind’s low tone. 
And thou, meek hyacinth! afar is roving 
The- bee, that oft thy trembling bells hath kissed; 
Cradled ye were, fair flowers! ’midst all things 
loving, 
A joy to all — yet, yet, ye are not missed! 
Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam gladness, 
And the winds fragrance, wandering where they 
list! 
0, it were breathing words too deep in sadness, 
To say—earth’s human flowers not more are 
missed. 
All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades 
Like the fair flower dishevelled in the wind. 
t 
COWTKR. 
