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VERSES

On a vase filled with sub-tropical flowers grown in the open air in December.

Most beauteous flowers!
Come ye to tell of summer hours,
Of balmy breezes—lengthened days,
Of warblers' blithesome lays?
Thus come ye not,
For not in summer lies your lot,
No lengthened days attend your birth
Nor songsters' vocal mirth.
Yet gentle gales
Are near, and sunshine still prevails,
As in frail loveliness ye lie
Too soon, alas! to die.

59

Ah fair, how fair,
Here Nature working everywhere,—
If winter thus it makes to me,
What must the spring-time be!
And yet, although
Each plant delights in southern glow,
Upon no zephyr is there spent
One breath of subtle scent.
'Tis England's flowers—
The lily and rose of English bowers—
Retain the perfume and the glow:
These blossoms only blow.
'Tis England's spring
Whose every floweret seems to bring
New sweets to blend with every breeze
Among the budding trees.
Yet 'tis a power,
This glory of each plant and flower,
To make the poet's heart rejoice
And sing with gladsome voice.
The poet feels—
Yet rarely even he reveals—
The restful store of blissful thought
Such flowers to him have brought.
 

This is hardly true of Madeira to-day—1908—as so many species of birds have been brought thither since these lines were written.