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Turn ye, kind reader, a few pages back. 
And deign to gaze 
Upon the portrait-flowers that there ye meet; — 
One, in such blaze 
Of brilliant beauty and of gorgeous glow. 
That ye ne’er saw an Empress robed so. 
With proud disdain how she uproars her stein. 
Unbending, tall; 
As if she arrogantly, vainly said — 
“ What are ye all 
Pale, paltry buds, that trail and creep around. 
Scarce rising from the base and sordid ground ? 
See, how the butterflies, with gay-plumed wings 
On me alight — 
Attracted by my tow’ring, stately stem. 
And colours bright— 
None in mij presence cast a thought on you — 
Their homage paid to me, away they go.” 
So seemed this gaudy flower to discourse 
Unto the fair. 
Humble, and lowly buds, which all around 
Disposed were; 
And much her scorn on their mean rank was bent; 
Which scorn, howe’er, brought them no discontent. 
