THE TULIP. 
The tulip, whose red veins 
Are flushed with deeper, warmer stains, 
Glows in each leaf with more than Nimrod's 
fires. 
Anon. 
Down the tulip's moistened cheek, 
Spread with Nature’s warmest bloom, 
Sparkling drops of dew distil. 
Anon. 
Then comes the Tulip race, where beauty 
plays 
Her idle freaks ; from family diffused 
To family, as flies the father dust. 
The varied colours run; and while they break 
On the charm’d eye, th’ exulting florist marks. 
With secret pride, the wonders of his hand. 
Thomson. 
The same.—* kleist. 
Who thus, 0 tulip! thy gay*paintedbreast 
In all the colours of the sun has drest ? 
Well could I call thee, in thy gaudy pride, 
