A Modest Blooming Flower.

81

A modest blooming flow's,
I mark'd at coming day;
The fairest of the bower,
The pride of infant May.
I watch'd it as it grew,
And wept that aught so fair,
Should fade like morning dew,
And droop and perish there.

At ev'ning's peaceful home,
It's form no more is seen —
Around that silent bow'r
The withering wind hath been.
Like that poor faded flower,
Alas! My bright hopes seem
Wreck'd, in affection's bow'r,
Their mem'ry but a dream!