III.—YE ARE NOT MISS'D, FAIR FLOWERS.
Ye are not miss'd, fair flowers, that late were spreading
The summer's glow by fount and breezy grot;
There falls the dew, its fairy favours shedding,
The leaves dance on, the young birds miss you not.
Still plays the sparkle o'er the rippling water,
O lily! whence thy cup of pearl is gone;
The bright wave mourns not for its loveliest daughter,
There is no sorrow in the wind's low tone.
And thou, meeek hyacinth! afar is roving
The bee that oft thy trembling bells hath kiss'd;
Cradled ye were, fair flowers! 'midst all things loving,
A joy to all—yet, yet, ye are not miss'd!
Ye, that were born to lend the sunbeam gladness,
And the winds fragrance, wandering where they list,
Oh! it were breathing words too deep in sadness,
To say—earth's human flowers not more are miss'd.
