ON PLANTING A TULIP ROOT. 
Llere lies a bulb, the child of Earth, 
Buried alive beneath the clod, 
Ere long to Spring, by second birth, 
A new and nobler work of God. 
’Tis said that microscopic power 
Might through its swadling folds descry 
The infant image of the flower, 
Too exquisite to meet the eye. 
This, vernal suns and rains will swell, 
’Till from its dark abode it peep. 
Like Venus rising from her shell, 
Amid’st the spring-tide of the deep. 
Two shapely leaves will first unfold, 
Then, on a smooth elastic stem, 
The verdant bud shall turn to gold, 
And open in a diadem. 
Not one of Flora’s brilliant race 
A form more perfect can display; 
Art could not feign more simple grace ; 
Nor Nature take a line away. 
