





159 POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
I sought—but sudden on mine ear 
A voice in hollow murmurs broke, 
And smote my ear with holy fear— 
The Genius of the Ruin spoke. 
‘ From thee be far th’ ungentle deed, 
The honours of the dead to spoil, 
Or take the sole remaining meed, 
The flower that crowns the former toil} 
‘Nor deem that flower the garden’s foe, 
Or fond to grace this barren shade ; 
'Tis nature tells her to bestow 
Her honours on the lonely dead. 
‘For this, obedient zephyrs bear 
Her light seeds round yon turret’s mould, 
And undispers’d by tempests there, 
They rise in vegetable gold. 
‘Nor shall thy wonder wake to see 
Such desert scenes distinction crave 3 
Oft have they been, and oft shall be 
Truth’s, honour’s, valour’s, beauty’s grave. 
‘Where longs to fall that rifted spire, 
As weary of th’ insulting air; 
The poet’s thought, the warrior’s fire, 
The lover’s sighs are sleeping there. 
