THE ORCHIDS OF NEW ENGLAND. 



Here the Linnceas swing their perfumed censers. 



And Tiarellas pale 

 And pure as vestal virgins throng the spaces 



In this hushed, peaceful vale. 



Ah no! to deeper glooms the woodthrush calls me 



To urge my glad pursuit ; 

 Her laureate, who melodiously flatters 



On his rich silver flute. 



See ! where that thoughtless wind the leaves is lifting, 



Above her mossy bed 

 On lightest tiptoe poised Calypso hovers, 



Her rosy wings outspread. 



Thrice happy I, to gaze at last upon her ! 



But shall I venture near? 

 How frame my speech, or what petition offer 



That she will deign to hear? 



I haste ; I kneel ; for joy I cannot utter 



One stammered word of praise ; 

 She nods her graceful head ; to wait my pleasure 



The goddess fair delays. 



*35 



