

FLOWERS. 
No roving foot shall crush thee here, 
No busy hand provoke a tear. 
By Nature’s self in white arrayed, 
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, 
And planted here the guardian shade, 
And sent soft waters murmuring by; 
Thus quietly thy summer goes, 
Thy days declining to repose. 
Smit with those charms, that must decay, 
I grieve to see your future doom ; 
They died—nor were those flowers more gay, 
The flowers that did in Eden bloom ; 
Unpitying frosts and Autumn’s power, 
Shall leave no vestige of this flower. 
From morning suns and evening dews 
At first thy little being came: 
If nothing once, you nothing lose, 
For when you die you are the same ; 
The space between is but an hour, 
The frail duration of a flower. 
Painip FRENEAN. 




