Flower of Song 55 



"The lotus wakes from its slumbers lone, 

 To waft its homage unto me, 

 And the spice-groves lay before my throne 

 The tribute due to the Fleur-de-lis." 



So hailed she vassals far and wide, 

 Till her glance swept over a hemisphere, 

 But noted not, in her queenly pride, 

 A slender sapling growing near. 



Slow uprising o'er glade and glen. 

 Its branches bent in the breezes free, 

 But its roots were set in the hearts of men. 

 Who gave their life to the Linden-tree. 



"Speak, seer of the mighty mien! 

 Answer, sage of the mystic air! 

 What is the lot of the Linden green.? 

 What is the fate of the Lily fair.?" 



"Hear'st thou the wail of the winter wake.? 

 Hear'st thou the roar of the angry sea? 

 Ask not, for heaven's own thunders break 

 On the Linden fair and the Fleur-de-lis!" 



The storm-clouds fade from the murky air. 

 Again the freshening breezes blow, 

 The sunbeams rest on the garden rare. 

 But the Lily Hes buried beneath the snow! 



From the ice-locked Rhine to the western sea 



Mournfully spreads the wintry pall, 



Cold and still is the Fleur-de-hs, 



But the Linden threatens to shadow all! 



