$2 FOETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Did malice, with her demon scowl, 
Dark lowering, pour her venom foul 
Forth on thy morn of fame ? 
If sooth imaginations guess, 
Thou art not all companionless 
In thy dejected state. 
Like thee hath many a genius proud 
Found Refuge in an early shroud, 
Beyond the reach of fate. 
Farewell ! no prescient power is mine} 
But should my lot resemble thine, 
Should fortune’s biting blast 
Rave round my dark devoted head, 
If conscience here her halo shed, 
V’ll brave it to the last. 
YE ARE NOT MISS’D, FAIR FLOWERS. 
YxE are not miss’d, fair flowers, that late were 
spreading 
The summer’s glow by fount and breezy grot; 
There falls the dew, its fairy favours shedding, 
The leaves dance on, the young birds miss you 
not. 

