With the preceding communication from Mr. Prior, are the following verses.
To the Dead Nettle.
Unlike the rose,
Thou hast not bards to sing
Thy merits as thy beauty grows
’Neath hedges in the spring.
Unconscious flower!
Thy downcast blossom seems
Like widowed thought in sorrow’s hour
Away from pleasure’s beams.
Young feeling’s eye
Surveys thee in thy vernal bed,
Protected from the glare of sky,
By lovely nature fed.
He, that would learn
Sermons from thine eternal birth,
Might safely to the world return
And triumph over earth.
J. R. Prior.