102 
DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 
THE WHITE CLOVER. 
MISS S. SMITH. 
There is a little perfumed flower, 
Which well might grace the loveliest bower; 
Yet poets never deigned to sing 
Of such a humble, rustic thing: 
Nor is it strange, for it can show 
Scarcely one tint of Iris’s bow. 
Nature, perchance, in careless hour, 
With pencil dry might paint the flower — 
Yet instant blushed her fault to see, 
And gave it double fragrancy. 
Kich recompense for aught denied : 
Who would not homely garb abide, 
If gentlest soul were breathing there — 
Blessing, through all their little sphere. 
Sweet flower! the lesson thou hast taught 
Shall check each proud, ambitious thought — 
Teach me internal worth to prize, 
Though found in lowliest, modest guise. 
