DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 71 
Why hangest thou thy maiden head 
With such a coyness ? Why’s the rich 
Blush spreading its roseate tints 
O’er thy fair cheek? Is ’t because I’ve 
Told the tender tale, which within 
My heart has, like a hallowed flame, 
Been burning, and feeding on its 
Inward light, till it no longer 
Could the silent smoth’ring keep ? 
Then bursting forth, laden with its 
Long cherished, silent eloquence, 
Asking thee but to love the heart. 
Which loveth thee so well ? If so, 
Then am I blest! for by those eyes 
Downcast, as if their lids were lade 
With tears unshed, I find my hopes 
Not blasted — but my heart received. 
