114 THE POETKV OF FLOWERS, 
By love’s simplicity betray’d, 
And guileless trust; 
Till she, like thee, all soil’d, is laid 
Low i’ the dust. 
Such is the fate of simple bard, 
On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d ! 
Unskilful he to note the card 
Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 
And whelm him o’er! 
Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
Who long with wants and woes has striven 
By human pride or cunning driven 
To misery’s brink, 
Till, wrench’d of every stay but heaven, 
He ruin’d sink! 
E’en thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate, 
That fate is thine—no distant date ; 
Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives elate, 
Full on thy bloom, 
Till crush’d Deneath the furrow’s weight, 
Shall be thy doom! 
