As abstracts drawn from Nature’s larger book:
Here, first described, the torpid earth appears,
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,