(Written in her thirteenth year.)

The last flower of the garden was blooming alone,
The last rays of the sun on its blushing leaves shone;
Still a glittering drop on its bosom reclined,
And a few half blown buds 'midst its leaves were entwined.

Say, lonely one, say, why ling'rest thou here?
And why on thy bosom reclines the bright tear?
'T is the tear of a zephyr — for summer 't was shed,
And for all thy companions now withered and dead.

Why ling'rest thou here, when around thee are strown
The flowers once so lovely, by Autumn blast blown?
Say, why, sweetest flow'ret, the last of thy race,
Why ling'rest thou here the lone garden to grace?.

As I spoke, a rough blast, sent by Winter's own hand,
Whistled by me, and bent its sweet head to the sand;
I hastened to raise it — the dew-drop had fled,
And the once lovely flower was withered and dead.