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POETRY OF FLOWERS. 815 
That, far from envy’s lurid eye, 
The fairest fruits of genius rear, 
Content to see them bloom and die 
In friendship’s small but kindly sphere. 
Than vainer flowers, though sweeter far, 
The Evening Primrose shuns the day ; 
Blooms only to the western star, 
And loves its solitary ray. 
In Hden’s vale, an aged hind, 
At the dim twilight’s closing hour, 
On his time-smoothed staff reclined, 
With wonder viewed the opening flower, 
‘“‘ Tll-fated flower, at eve to blow,” 
(In pity’s simple thought he cries,) 
“Thy bosom must not feel the glow 
Of splendid suns, or smiling skies. 
* Nor thee the vagrants of the field, 
The hamlet’s little train, behold ; 
Their eyes to sweet oppression yield, 
When thine the falling shades unfold. 
** Nor thee the hasty shepherd heeds, 
When love has filled his heart with cares: 
Yor flowers he rifles all the meads ; 
For waking flowers—but thine forbears.”’ 


