(_For the Mirror._)
A flower beheld a lofty oak,
And thus in mournful accents spoke;
"The verdure of that tree will last,
Till Autumn's loveliest days are past,
Whilst I with brightest colours crown'd,
Shall soon lie withering on the ground."
The lofty oak this answer made:
"The fairest flowers the soonest fade."
* * * * *