THE ENGLISH FLOWER.
Not the proud rose of England’s glorious crown—Not France’s flower-de-luce of stainless sheen—Not Scotland’s boastful emblem of renown—Not Erin’s hallowed shamrock green—Not, as the laurel prodigal of power,To deck the blood-stained victor’s triumph high,—Not as the proud Narcissus, hapless flower,Of self-enamored vanity to die,—No cultured plant of rare exotic birth,With flaunting hues unconscious of perfume,—Meek offspring of thy parent earth,—Art thou, sweet bud of native bloom,—Pure as the lily of some rural glade,That bursts unnoted from the velvet sod,Yet sends, from tufted leaves its head that shade,A tribute of rare odors up to God.Oh! born to cheer, to comfort, and to bless,To lend to happiness a deeper charm,To banish sorrow with thy pure caress,Holy, and sweet, and innocent, and warm—May nought of lasting grief thy smiles efface,Blight thy rich cheek, or dim thy laughing eyes.Long mayest thou witch the world with that fair face,Then bloom for ever in the eternal skies.ZETA.
Not the proud rose of England’s glorious crown—Not France’s flower-de-luce of stainless sheen—Not Scotland’s boastful emblem of renown—Not Erin’s hallowed shamrock green—Not, as the laurel prodigal of power,To deck the blood-stained victor’s triumph high,—Not as the proud Narcissus, hapless flower,Of self-enamored vanity to die,—No cultured plant of rare exotic birth,With flaunting hues unconscious of perfume,—Meek offspring of thy parent earth,—Art thou, sweet bud of native bloom,—Pure as the lily of some rural glade,That bursts unnoted from the velvet sod,Yet sends, from tufted leaves its head that shade,A tribute of rare odors up to God.Oh! born to cheer, to comfort, and to bless,To lend to happiness a deeper charm,To banish sorrow with thy pure caress,Holy, and sweet, and innocent, and warm—May nought of lasting grief thy smiles efface,Blight thy rich cheek, or dim thy laughing eyes.Long mayest thou witch the world with that fair face,Then bloom for ever in the eternal skies.ZETA.
Not the proud rose of England’s glorious crown—Not France’s flower-de-luce of stainless sheen—Not Scotland’s boastful emblem of renown—Not Erin’s hallowed shamrock green—
Not the proud rose of England’s glorious crown—
Not France’s flower-de-luce of stainless sheen—
Not Scotland’s boastful emblem of renown—
Not Erin’s hallowed shamrock green—
Not, as the laurel prodigal of power,To deck the blood-stained victor’s triumph high,—Not as the proud Narcissus, hapless flower,Of self-enamored vanity to die,—
Not, as the laurel prodigal of power,
To deck the blood-stained victor’s triumph high,—
Not as the proud Narcissus, hapless flower,
Of self-enamored vanity to die,—
No cultured plant of rare exotic birth,With flaunting hues unconscious of perfume,—Meek offspring of thy parent earth,—Art thou, sweet bud of native bloom,—
No cultured plant of rare exotic birth,
With flaunting hues unconscious of perfume,—
Meek offspring of thy parent earth,—
Art thou, sweet bud of native bloom,—
Pure as the lily of some rural glade,That bursts unnoted from the velvet sod,Yet sends, from tufted leaves its head that shade,A tribute of rare odors up to God.
Pure as the lily of some rural glade,
That bursts unnoted from the velvet sod,
Yet sends, from tufted leaves its head that shade,
A tribute of rare odors up to God.
Oh! born to cheer, to comfort, and to bless,To lend to happiness a deeper charm,To banish sorrow with thy pure caress,Holy, and sweet, and innocent, and warm—
Oh! born to cheer, to comfort, and to bless,
To lend to happiness a deeper charm,
To banish sorrow with thy pure caress,
Holy, and sweet, and innocent, and warm—
May nought of lasting grief thy smiles efface,Blight thy rich cheek, or dim thy laughing eyes.Long mayest thou witch the world with that fair face,Then bloom for ever in the eternal skies.ZETA.
May nought of lasting grief thy smiles efface,
Blight thy rich cheek, or dim thy laughing eyes.
Long mayest thou witch the world with that fair face,
Then bloom for ever in the eternal skies.
ZETA.