DROPS FROM FLORA'S CUP. 87 
GLYNN. 
Behold the mighty murderers of mankind; 
Who to the tottering pinnacle of power 
Waded through seas of blood! How will they 
Curse the madness of ambition! how lament 
Their dear-bought laurels, when the widowed 
wife, 
The childless mother, at the judgment-seat 
Plead trumpet-tongued against them. 
The bard his glory ne’er receives, 
Where summer’s common flowers are seen, 
But winter finds it, when she leaves 
The laurel only green; 
And time, from that eternal tree, 
Shall weave a wreath to honor thee. 
Chase. 
