The Rose is still most rich and sweet, I have basked in the beauty of southern climes, Would linger in their myrtle bowers,— With garlands rich of orange flowers And fasten 'mid their lustrous hair Which, brighter than the diamond's sheen, But yet I would not give for these, In fair Aragua's fertile vale, In Hayti's fields of bloom, I've marked the prickly Cactus tribe I've passed through fragrant Coffee groves, By the tall Bucara tree, And by the Cocoa and the Palm, With the Trupeol warbling free; Upon the flower-clad turf, and where The rich Orchidia climbs in air. But not 'mid all this gorgeous bloom, By tropic climate wove, Nor Florida's rich Magnolia And fragrant Orange grove; Nor the graceful vines of southern France, Nor England's lofty domes of glass Then seek, in southern, tropic air, And in the bright and gay parterre, Where every flower, and leaf, and tree, Presents new beauty to the eye, Of azure or of jet; And take each blossom, rich and rare, S. B. P. |