148 DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 
And what the sighing zephyr hither brings, 
To wander in these muse-beloved dells — 
It is to linger ’midst thy drooping bells, 
While vain repentance in thine ear he sings. 
And, sweetest flower, methinks thou hast forgiven 
Him, who unconsciously did cause thy death: 
For soon as thou hadst yielded up thy breath, 
With grief for thee his frantic soul was riven. 
And thou wert placed where mingle wave and 
breeze 
Their dreamy music with the vocal choir, 
Whose varied harmonies might seem a lyre, 
Striving with dying notes thy soul to please — 
Where winter ne’er ungraciously presumes 
To touch thee with his sacrilegious hand — 
Where thy meek handmaids are the dews so 
bland — 
Where spring around thee spreads her choicest 
blooms. 
'T is not revenge nor pining wretchedness, 
Thy head in pensive attitude that throws — 
'T is extreme sensibility, that shows 
In gesture, gratitude speech can’t express. 
E’en, while I pay this tributary praise, 
Methinks a deeper tinge thy cheek doth flush ; 
What, lovely one, need make thee thus to blush 
And turn away from my enraptured gaze 1 
