DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 
61 
THE DAHLIA. 
MARTIN. 
Though severed from its native clime, 
Where skies are ever bright and clear, 
And nature’s face is all sublime, 
And beauty clothes the fragrant air, 
The Dahlia will each glory wear, 
With tints as bright, and leaves as green; 
And winter, in his savage mien, 
May breath forth storm, — yet she will bear 
With all: — and, in the summer ray, 
With blossoms deck the brow of day. 
And thus the soul —if fortune cast 
Its lot to live in scenes less bright, — 
Should bloom amidst the adverse blast; — 
Nor sutler sorrow’s clouds to blight 
Its outward beauty — inward light. 
Thus should she live and flourish still, 
Though misery’s frost might strive to kill 
The germ of hope within her quite: — 
Thus should she hold each beauty fast, 
And bud and blossom to the last. 
