(Written in her sixteenth year.)

There is a sweet, tho' humble flower,
Which grows in nature's wildest bed;
It blossoms in the lonely bower,
But withers 'neath the gazer's tread.

'T is rear'd alone, far, far away
From the wild noxious weeds of death,
Around its brow the sunbeams play,
The evening dew-drop is its wreath.

'T is Modesty; 't is nature's child;
The loveliest, sweetest, meekest flower
That ever blossom'd in the wild,
Or trembled'neath the evening shower.

'T is Modesty; so pure, so fair,
That woman's witch'ries lovelier grow,
When that sweet flower is blooming there,
The brightest beauty of her brow.