120 DROPS FROM FLORA’S CDP. 
It bowed with the moisture that the night had 
wept 
When the stars shone over the billow, 
And white-winged spirits their vigils kept, 
Where beauty and innocence sweetly slept 
On its pure and thornless pillow. 
FLOWERS. 
WORDSWORTH. 
Ere yet our course was graced with social trees. 
It lacked not old remains of hawthorn bowers, 
Where small birds warbled to their paramours; 
And, earlier still, was heard the hum of bees; 
I saw them ply their harmless robberies, 
And caught the fragrance which the sundry flowers, 
Fed by the stream with soft perpetual showers, 
Plenteously yielded to the vagrant breeze. 
There bloomed the strawberry of the wilderness; 
The trembling eye-bright showed her sapphire 
blue, 
The thyme her purple, like the blush of even; 
And, if the breath of some to no caress 
Invited, forth they peeped so fair to view, 
All kinds alike seemed favorites of heaven. 
