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AN EXOTIC. 267
With richer hues are dress'd, Than in our garden bowers.
Ah ! is it our cold clime,
"Which makes thy cheek so pale,
Thine eye so passionless,
And thy slight form so frail ?
Dost thou bewail thy home,
Sigh for thy native air; Where kindred flow'rets bloom
More beautifully fair ? Lone flower, thy lot is sad;
For early frosts will come, And thy soft tints must fade,
A thousand leagues from home.
I knew a stranger flower,
•Whose native clime was heaven, Calm as the twilight hour,
Bright aS the star of even. It bloom'd awhile below,
On the rough waste of time; Bloom'd beneath clouds of woe—
An uncongenial clime.
How sadly sweet it smiled
On earth's cold-hearted throngs! Shrank from its flatt'ring wiles,
And trembled at its wrongs!