104 
DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 
How oft, by innocence deceived, 
The pure ingenuous mind, 
Has some reward on earth conceived, 
It's never doomed to find. 
How oft does scandal’s withering blast 
Congeal our pleasure’s spring, 
And though not long its hold can last, 
It still will leave a sting. 
But if our pleasure like the flower, 
At best must soon decay; 
The breeze which blows a happy hour 
The next may blow away: — 
O, let the soul superior rise 
To ev’ry human ill — 
Just as the flower that, dying, sighs 
Its lovely perfume still. 
