POETRY OF THE ROSE. 125 



I've crossed the Andes' lofty height, 



Its mountains, forest-crowned, 



And 'mong the devious, tangled paths 



Of tropic thickets wound. 



In fair Aragua's fertile vale, 



In Hayti's fields of bloom, 



I've marked the prickly Cactus tribe 



Its richest tints assume. 



I've passed through fragrant Coffee groves, 



By the tall Bucara tree, 



And by the Cocoa and the Palm, 



With the Trupeol warbling free ; 



Upon the flower-clad turf, and where 



The rich Orchidia climbs in air. 



But not mid all this gorgeous bloom, 



By tropic climate wove, 



Nor Florida's rich Magnolia 



And fragrant Orange grove ; 



Nor the graceful vines of southern France, 



Nor Italy's fair bowers, 



Nor England's lofty domes of glass 



All filled with gorgeous flowers ; 



Nor in our own wide prairie land, 



With bud and bloom on every hand, 



Is there a single flower that grows 



Can vie in beauty with the Rose. 



Then seek, in southern, tropic air, 



And in our northern glade, 



And in the bright and gay parterre, 



And by the forest shade, 



Where every flower, and leaf, and tree, 



In graceful blending met, 



Presents new beauty to the eye, 



Of azure or of jet ; 



11 



