And next, the vegetable robe it wears:
Where flow'ry tribes, in valleys, fields and groves,
Nurse the still flame, and feed the silent loves—
Loves, where no grief, nor joy, nor bliss, nor pain,
Warm the glad heart or vex the labouring brain;
But as the green blood moves along the blade,
The bed of Flora on the branch is made;
Where, without passion, love instinctive lives,
And gives new life, unconscious that it gives.
Advancing still in Nature's maze, we trace,