“Me yonder golden sun shall warm, “At morn and noon-tide hour; “And me his ev’ning beams attend, “Like his own fav’rite flow’r.
“Nor yonder Rose, nor Bacchus’ Plant, “Which twining near me grows, “Can boast more excellence than me, “Or brighter dyes disclose.
“Hence thou! nor this fair spot profane, “Where fairer flow’rets blow; “Return again to shades obscure, “And there neglected grow.”
The LILY heard, with decent grace, That scorn’d the boaster’s pride; Then from her lone, unenvy’d bed She thus in brief reply’d;
“From vaunting loud what fame is gain’d, “To raise the boaster’s name; “Or might not yonder blushing Rose “Exert a fairer claim?
“And many a flow’r that round thee blows, “In the bright garb of Spring; “Or, rich in elegant perfumes, “That scent the Zephyr’s wing.
“The vine, with purple clusters deck’d, “Shall soon rich sweets bestow; “Whilst thou, a barren flow’r at best, “Art only made for show.
“For ME;—what Nature form’d, I am; “I envy not thy pride; “Nor seek to raise a greater boast, “By Providence deny’d.
“Yet in some dark and dang’rous hour, “When tempests rude assail; “Ev’n thou may’st wish the humbler state “Of LILY OF THE VALE.”
Safe from her humble spot she said, And view’d the changing sky; From op’ning clouds the thunders break, The livid lightnings fly.
Full on the garden’s lofty wall, The flow’rs exalted place, The fires æthereal swiftly fall, And rend its solid base.
And now the boaster’s trust and pride Assur’d her overthrow; Her glories buried in the dust, By one destructive blow.
The LILY view’d the ruin’d flow’r, And strait this Moral drew; _Beauty and Pride are idly vain,_ _But Praise is Merit’s due_.
_Daughters of Albion, timely wise,_ _Attend the moral tale;_ _And imitate with prudent care_ THE LILY OF THE VALE.
“From warmer climates early borne, “Where beams the god of light; “How gaily blooms yon lofty plant, “In native colours bright!
“The root, the plant, the leaf, the flow’r, “Alike our wonder raise; “And all confess the fragrant stock, “Renown’d in ancient days.
“Some say, but one revolving age “Beholds thy beauties spread; “And rear aloft to genial suns “Its highly blooming head.
“But thou, like Merit, kindly nurs’d, “An early spring wilt know; “While, check’d by rigid, frowning skies, “Thy gems forget to glow.