TO A LADY WHO COMPLAINED THAT THE ROSE WHICH SHE HAD PUT IN WATER, WAS FALLEN TO PIECES.
The rose, alas ! thy guardian hand
Saved yesterday from dying, Pale, wan, and vvither'd from its stem,
Is now in ruins lying.
But the fond flower, to shew thee still
Was grateful e'en in death, Her blushes to thy cheek bequeathed,
Her perfume to thy breath. ».
Oh ! who could, even in bondage, tread the plain Of glorious Greece, nor feel his spirit rise Kindling within him* who with heart and eyes, Could walk where liberty had been, nor see The shining foot-prints of her deity, Nor feel those godlike breathings in the air, Which mutely told her spirit had been there ?
Moore.
The Chevalier's Lament.
The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear through the vale,
The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the morning, And wide scattered cowslipj bedeck the gree
