DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 43 
TIIE DESOLATE ONE. 
CAMPBELL. 
As wandering, I found on my ruinous walk, 
By the dial-stone aged and green, 
One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk, 
To mark where a garden had been; 
Bike a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, 
All wild in the silence of nature, it drew 
From each wandering sunbeam a lovely embrace, 
For the nightweed and thorn overshadowed the 
place 
Where the flower of my forefathers grew. 
Sweet bud of the wilderness! emblem of all 
That survives in this desolate heart; 
The fabric of bliss to its centre may fall, 
But patience shall never depart; 
Though the wilds of enchantment, all vernal and 
bright, 
In the days of delusion by fancy combined 
With the vanishing phantoms of woe and delight, 
Abandon my soul like a dream of the night, 
And leave but a desert behind. 
