TULIP. 
101 
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 TULIP. 
KLEIST. 
Who thus, O Tulip! thy gay-painted breast 
In all the colours of the sun has drest? 
Well could I call thee, in thy gaudy pride, 
The Queen of flow’rs; but blooming by thy side 
Her thousand leaves that beams of love adorn, 
Her throne surrounded by protecting thorn, 
And smell eternal, form a juster claim, 
Which gives the heaven-born Rose the lofty name, 
Who, having slept throughout the wintry storm, 
Now through the op’ning buds displays her smiling form. 
SONG OF THE TULIP. 
HOLLAND. 
How vain are the struggles for conquest and power, 
With golden bud and scented flower, 
Who claim, from their beauty or fragrance alone, 
Their right to ascend the garden throne! — 
A graceful form may please the sight, 
And fragrant odour the senses delight; 
