




“« 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 fill’d his heart with cares; 
For flowers he rifles all the meads; 
For walking flowers—but thine forbears 
Ah! waste no more that beauteous bloom 
On night’s chill shade that fragrant breath 
Let smiling suns those gems illume ? 
Fair flower! to live unseen is death '”? 
Soft as the voice of vernal gales 
That o’er the bending meadows blow, 
r streams that steal through even valeg, 
And murmur that they move so slow. 
er unfrequented bower, 
Philomela pour’d her strain ; 
ev’ es her flower, 
us the anxious swain := 
6c 1X7, nanaan ¢ 
Live unseen ! 



