He saw it falling, filling,
And sinking 'neath the main,
His eyes then closed for ever,
He never drank again.
1774. ——-
THE BEAUTEOUS FLOWER.
SONG OF THE IMPRISONED COUNT.
COUNT.
I KNOW a flower of beauty rare,
Ah, how I hold it dear!
To seek it I would fain repair,
Were I not prison'd here.
My sorrow sore oppresses me,
For when I was at liberty,