THE TULIP ROOT. 
A ball now hisses through the airy tides, 
Some fury wing’d it, and some demon guides, 
Parts the fine locks her graceful head that deck, 
Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck ; 
The red stream issuing from her azure veins 
Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains. 
“ Ah me ! ” she cried, and, sinking on the ground, 
Kiss’d her dear babes, regardless of the wound ; 
“ Oh ! cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn, 
“ Wait, gushing life, oh ! wait my Love’s return ; 
“ Oh ! spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age ; 
“ On me, on me,” she cried, “ exhaust your rage.” 
Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far, 
The angel Pity shuns the walks of war ; 
Then with weak arms her weeping babes caressed, 
And, sighing, hid them in her bloodstain’ d vest. 
DARWIN. 
( 54 ) 
