POETRY OF FLOWERS. 149 
And there Vimiria waves 
Her light and feathery bowers, 
*Mid russet-shaded leaves, 
Where robin sits and grieves 
Your hasting death, sweet flowers ! 
He sings your requiem all the day, 
And mourns because ye pass away 
THE WALL-FLOWER. 
‘Wry loves my flower, the sweetest flower 
That swells the golden breast of May, 
Thrown rudely o’er this ruin’d tower, 
To waste the solitary day ? 
‘Why, when the mead, the spicy vale, 
The grove and genial garden call, 
Will she her fragrant scents exhale 
Unheeded on the lonely wall ? 
For never sure was beauty born, 
To live in death’s deserted shade ! 
Come lovely flower, my banks adorn, 
My banks for life and beauty made.’ 
Thus pity wak’d the tender thought 3 
And by her sweet persuasion led, 
To seize the hermit flower I sought, 
And bear her from her stony bed. 









