TO THE CACTUS SPECIOSISSIMUS. 



BY MRS. SIGOURNEY. 



Who hung thy beauty on such rugged stalk, 

 Thou glorious flower ? 



Who pour'd the richest hues. 

 In varying radiance, o'er thine ample brow. 

 And like a mesh those tissued stamens laid 

 Upon thy crimson lip ? — 



Thou glorious flower ! 

 Methinks it were no sin to worship thee. 

 Such passport hast thou from thy Maker's hand, 

 To thrill the soul. Lone on thy leafless stem. 

 Thou bid'st the queenly Rose with all her buds 

 Do homage, and the green-house peerage bow 

 Their rainbow coronets. 



Hast thou no thought ? 

 No intellectual life ? thou who can'st wake 

 Man's heart to such communings ? no sweet word 

 With which to answer him ? 'Twould almost seem 

 That so much beauty needs must have a soul, 

 And that such form, as tints, the gazer's dream. 

 Held higher spirit than the common clod 

 On \^ hich we tread. 



