grief To have worshipped the trifler thou art! Thy beauty thy heart hath betrayed—     Thy beauty—shame, Minna, to thee! To-morrow its glory will fade, And its roses all withered will be! The swallows that swarm in the sun Will fly when the north winds awaken, The false ones thine autumn will shun, For whom thou the true hast forsaken!     'Mid the wrecks of the charms in December, I see thee alone in decay, And each spring shall but bid thee remember How brief for thyself was the May! Then they who so wantonly flock To the rapture thy kiss can impart, Shall scoff at thy winter, and mock Thy beauty as wrecked as thy heart! Thy beauty thy heart hath betrayed—     Thy beauty—shame, Minna, to thee To-morrow its glory will fade—     And its roses all withered will be! O, what scorn for thy desolate years Shall I feel!—God forbid it in me! How bitter will then be the tears Shed, Minna, O Minna, for thee! 

             THE FLOWERS. Ye offspring of the morning sun, Ye flowers that deck the smiling plain, Your lives, in joy and bliss begun, In Nature's love unchanged remain. With hues of bright and godlike splendor Sweet Flora graced your forms so tender, And clothed ye in a garb of light; Spring's lovely children weep forever, For living souls she gave ye never, And ye must dwell in endless night? The nightingale and lark still sing In your tranced ears the bliss of love; The toying sylphs, on airy wing, Around your fragrant bosoms rove, Of yore, Dione's daughter 6 twining In garlands sweet your cup-so shining, A pillow formed where love might rest! Spring's gentle children, mourn forever, The joys of love she gave ye never, Ne'er let ye know that feeling blest! But when ye're gathered by my hand, A token of my love to be, Now that her mother's harsh command From Nanny's 7 sight has banished me—    E'en from that passing touch ye borrow Those heralds mute of pleasing sorrow, Life, language, hearts and souls divine; And to your silent leaves 'tis given, By Him who mightiest is in heaven, His glorious Godhead to enshrine. 

           THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. A HYMN. By love are blest the gods on high, Frail man becomes a deity When love to him is given;    'Tis love that makes the heavens shine With hues more radiant, more divine, And turns dull earth to heaven! In Pyrrha's rear (so poets sang In ages past and gone), The world from rocky fragments sprang—     Mankind from lifeless stone. Their soul was but a thing of night, Like stone and rock 

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