126 
DROPS PROM FLORA’S CUP. 
But placed upon my slender stem 
The poisoned sting she plucked from them, 
And none, since that eventful mom, 
Have found the flower without a thorn. 
AUTUMN. 
NATHANIEL A. HAVEN. 
Autumn! I love thy bower, 
With faded garlands dressed; 
How sweet, alone, to linger there, 
When tempests drive the midnight air, 
To snatch from mirth a fleeting hour, 
The Sabbath of the breast. 
Autumn! I love thee well, 
Though bleak thy breezes blow ; 
I love to see the vapors rise, 
And clouds roll wildly round the skies, 
When from the plains the mountains swell, 
And foaming torrents flow. 
Autumn! thy fading flowers 
Droop but to bloom again; 
So man, though doomed to grief awhile, 
To hang on fortune’s tickle smile, 
Shall glow in heaven with nobler powers, 
Nor sigh for peace in vain. 
