44 DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 
EVENING PRIMROSE. 
I am more faithful than thou. 
He placed within my fair, small hand, 
A thistle; it was bursting forth 
In all its roseate beauty, and, 
In token of his love, he bade 
Me ‘ ne’er forget the giver.’ I 
Twined a wreath of the myrtle-bough, 
And placing blue-bells ever and 
Anon in that ring of hope, I 
Set it on his brow, and pledged my 
Constant love. Sweet peas around our 
Pathway sprung, and cast their fragrance 
O’er us. Unwelcome was the tale 
They told, for they parted us; and, 
Bidding me a fond adieu, he 
Then departed. Months rolled on, and 
Many were the vows of love, true, 
Constant love, which by his hand were 
Traced, and by his lips were breathed. 
With love like woman’s, I confided 
All my fond, trusting heart to him; 
But, alas! the love which he had 
With the bay-leaf pledged, in all its 
Deep endurance, now blended with 
The larkspur’s flush, and whispered 
Sadder tales, for he proved false. 
