Yet, when beneath his radiant gaze,
The modest blush that o'er them plays,
To every thinking mind, portrays
The contrite, humble saint.
Sweet plant, I love thee, yes, I do,
And all thy blooming kindred too,
(More than the works of art,)
For in them, I can ever find
Such beauty, skill and power combined,
As captivate and soothe the mind,