THE VELVET LARKSPUR AND THE EGLANTINE.
A FABLE OF FLORA.
Amidst the flowers that lov’d to pour
Their sweets on every breath of May,
Along a green luxuriant shore
Where hoary Hudson winds his way.
There high upon a slender stem
A Larkspur bloom’d in scarlet pride,
And glittering with an evening gem,
She view’d her beauties in the tide.
Hard by, beneath a cedar’s shade,
An Eglantine of softest hues,
Her blushing buds and flowers display’d,
And shed her odours with the dews.
The setting SUN shot back a ray,
Once more the lovely plant to warm,
While warbling from a neighbouring spray,
A Thrush proclaim’d her power to charm.
The Larkspur turn’d her velvet head
To view the subject of the song;
“Come, minstrel of the wood,” she said,
“For me thy tuneful notes prolong.
“See how the waters, as they pass
To bathe the verdure of my feet,
Brighten before my glowing face,
And raptured roll in murmurs sweet.
“No flower that blossoms in the wild
Can boast a bloom so rich as mine;
No leaf that Flora’s hand can gild,
May like my polish’d foliage shine.
“Why therefore waste thy tender lay,
On yonder Eglantine so frail,
Whose faded tinges speak decay,
Soon as they open on the gale.
“And if some hermit ere hath found,
And sought her simple sweets to taste,
With pois’nous thorns encompass’d round,
He mourn’d too late his witless haste.”
“Vain weed, the scented brier replied,
While my perfumes enrich the air,
And bless the dale on every side,
Wilt thou, indeed, with me compare?
“And shall thy boasted tints that glare
A moment on the astonish’d sight,
With my lov’d buds a chaplet share,
Which even when faded yield delight?
“Thy verdant foliage, though it shine,
Emits a faint and sickly smell,
While every leaf and thorn of mine
Soft and delicious sweets exhale.
“And even those thorns thy folly blames,
They shield me from the spoiler’s power,
Whose niggard with an object claims,
He knows must perish in an hour.
“Yes, and the bard by love imprest,
Or sacred grief, hath sought my shade;
And there the anguish of his breast
In mournful poesy display’d.
“Henceforth then, herb, to me give place,
Long shall my charms be sung by fame,
While all thy tawdry, worthless race
Bloom and expire without a name.”
A Hermit from his rocky cell,
With pity the contention heard,
And thrice did tears his eye-lids fill,
And thrice he shook his silv’ry beard.
For in the vivid blooms he saw
What he in former times had been,
When passion was his only law,
And pride led on each various scene.
But prosperous days full soon withdrew,
Wealth vanish’d like a fairy dream,
And Friendship from his moanings flew,
And Love forgot his wonted theme.
Then turn’d he from his devious path,
(A path with many a thorn bestrew’d)
From passions wild, and cares that scath,
And sought this silent solitude.
“Frail flowers (he cried) forbear your strife,
Why should the charms that nature gave,
To bless your fleeting space of life,
That space, of mild content bereave?
“Let neither to the palm aspire,
To each a share of praise is due,
Rich is the odour of the Brier,
And beauteous is the Larkspur’s hue.
“But ah, since fate with stinted hand
Allots to each her little day,
Let Peace its morning beam command,
And gild serene its evening ray.
“For on the wing of Speed draws near,
Old Death, too faithful to his trust,
And soon the unlovely and the fair
Alike shall crumble into dust.”
ANNA.
New-York, July 29, 1796,
