SARRACENIA FLAVA; 



OR, 



YELLOW PITCHER-PLANT. 



This plant, so singular for its leaves and flowers, is native of Virginia, and grows in bogs, or 

 shallow water. It was introduced into our gardens in the year 1752. The leaves in their 

 infant state are flat, tapering, and of one compact substance; but at a certain age, at the top 

 the appearance of a lid is seen, bent down, or rather then resembling the upper bill of a bird; 

 afterwards the leaf opens from within until it enlarges itself into a triangular hollow vase, when 

 the lid turns back, taking the form of a friar's cowl. This contains water, and in droughts it is 

 said that the lid falls down over the mouth of the tube, serving as a covering to it, to prevent 

 the exhalation. It is called the Pitcher- Plant, because small birds repair to it, and drink out of 

 the hollow leaf. It is also named the Side-Saddle flower, from its flower being supposed to 

 resemble a woman's pillion. The leaves, as well as flowers, are radical. Each flower is elevated 

 on a long scape. It is defended by a double calyx. The outer consists of three small leaves: 

 the inner of five orbicular green leaves. The petals of the corolla are five, more oblong, of a 

 pale yellow. The stamina are numerous, and lie concealed under the target-formed stigma of the 

 pistillum, which perishing, with the stamina, leaves the swollen germen on the elevated scape. 

 The concealment of courtship here has furnished the poet with the following beautiful lines. 



In vain a num'rous race of gentle swains 



To Sarracenia pour'd their tender strains: 



In vain their ardent pray'r, their artless lay; 



Of tyrant vice she fell the hapless prey. — 



A libertine bred in the school of lies 



With lawless passion to the beauty flies; 



Gain'd her weak heart, and soon he turn'd from thence, 



Scarce having yet indulged his eager sense; 



Then the fell Furies, sailing through the air, 



Aim their keen weapons at the tortur'd fair; 



Scorn in her bleeding bosom strikes his dart, 



And sad Repentance writhes around her heart. 



Remorse her stinging snakes in fury throws, 



And Madness heightens her exalted woes. — 



Poor injur d stiff Wer! bid adieu to peace; 



Not in this world of sin thy pangs will cease: 



Not till kind Mercy takes thee to her breast, 



And bears thy spirit to the realms of rest. 



Frances Arabella Rowden. 



