THE ORCHIDS OF NEIV ENGLAND, 
Here the Linnzas 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. 
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