THE VINE IN FLOWER. 
fs this thy whole of bloom ? Does Spr 
No richer, brighter garland fling 
Around thy stem ? 
Then surely it is but in sport 
That thou dost ask in Flora’s court 
A place and name.’ 
Ah ! spare thy taunt; I know full well 
In me no floral beauties dwell: 
The meanest weed 
That blossoms in the public way, 
In grace of form, in colours gay, 
Doth me exceed. 
But come when Autumn’s genial hour 
Has changed to fruit my puny flower, 
And from my bough 
The purple nectar freely sip; 
And whilst it cools thy parched lip 
And fever’d brow, 
