DROPS FROM FLORA'S CUP. 95 
Sweet flower, that requiem wild is mine; 
It warns me to the lonely shrine, 
The cold turf altar of the dead; 
My grave shall be in yon lone spot, 
Where, as I lie by all forgot, 
A dying fragrance thou wilt o’er my ashes shed. 
HERRERA. 
With purple flowers, 0, Muse! each mom, 
The freshest flowers in bloom, 
Scattered with pious hands, adorn 
Thy Lasso's holy tomb. 
As burns the bird whose perished frame 
Arabian herbs inter, 
Tour broken boughs give to the flame 
With rosemary and myrrh; 
And 0, for his lamented sake, 
Apollo, to thy temple take 
The wreath of funeral fir; 
And sadly to the solemn string, 
His glory and his sorrows sing. 
