Not the proud rose of England’s glorious crown—
Not France’s flower-de-luce of stainless sheen—
Not Scotland’s boastful emblem of renown—
Not Erin’s hallowed shamrock green—
Not, as the laurel prodigal of power,
To deck the blood-stained victor’s triumph high,—
Not as the proud Narcissus, hapless flower,
Of self-enamored vanity to die,—
No cultured plant of rare exotic birth,
With flaunting hues unconscious of perfume,—