My first is the name of a fowl,
An emblem of modesty known;
My second has coloring power,
And grows ’neath a tropical sun.
My third is a mourning array,
That’s worn in an Orient clime,
And reminds of those regions of day
Beyond the confines of time.
My fourth in the spring-time is gay,
And comes with the note of the bird;
In autumn, leaves forest and spray,
And goes when no music is heard.
My fifth takes the place of my fourth,
When leaves are in autumn time sere;
But when winter comes on, with its dearth,
This too will in turn disappear.
My sixth is a fruit of one zone,
And name of a prince who sped
In triumph to England’s proud throne,
In place of a king who had fled.
My seventh’s in the meteor’s blaze
That lights up the star-spangled sky,
And glows in the twilight’s maze,
And the clouds in their golden dye.
My whole in beauty far outvies
The richest robe a prince e’er wore,
A signet gleaming in the skies,
A covenant for evermore.
[2]
My first oft preys upon my second;
My whole a bitter shrub is reckoned.