Amidst the flowers that lov’d to pour Their sweets on every breath of May, Along a green luxuriant shore Where hoary HUDSON winds his way. There high upon a slender stem A _Larkspur_ bloom’d in scarlet pride, And glittering with an evening gem, She view’d her beauties in the tide. Hard by, beneath a cedar’s shade, An _Eglantine_ of softest hues, Her blushing buds and flowers display’d, And shed her odours with the dews. The _setting_ SUN shot back a ray, Once more the lovely plant to warm, While warbling from a neighbouring spray, A _Thrush_ proclaim’d her power to charm. The _Larkspur_ turn’d her velvet head To view the subject of the song; “Come, minstrel of the wood,” she said, “For me thy tuneful notes prolong. “See how the waters, as they pass To bathe the verdure of my feet, Brighten before my glowing face, And raptured roll in murmurs sweet. “No flower that blossoms in the wild Can boast a bloom so rich as mine; No leaf that Flora’s hand can gild, May like my polish’d foliage shine. “Why therefore waste thy tender lay, On yonder _Eglantine_ so frail, Whose faded tinges speak decay, Soon as they open on the gale. “And if some hermit ere hath found, And sought her simple sweets to taste, With pois’nous thorns encompass’d round, He mourn’d too late his witless haste.” “Vain weed, the scented brier replied, While my perfumes enrich the air, And bless the dale on every side, Wilt thou, indeed, with me compare? “And shall thy boasted tints that glare A moment on the astonish’d sight, With my lov’d buds a chaplet share, Which even when faded yield delight? “Thy verdant foliage, though it shine, Emits a faint and sickly smell, While every leaf and thorn of mine Soft and delicious sweets exhale. “And even those thorns thy folly blames, They shield me from the spoiler’s power, Whose niggard with an object claims, He knows must perish in an hour. “Yes, and the bard by _love_ imprest, Or sacred _grief_, hath sought my shade; And there the anguish of his breast In mournful poesy display’d. “Henceforth then, herb, to me give place, Long shall my charms be sung by fame, While all thy tawdry, worthless race Bloom and expire without a name.” A HERMIT from his rocky cell, With pity the contention heard, And thrice did tears his eye-lids fill, And thrice he shook his silv’ry beard. For in the vivid blooms he saw What he in former times had been, When passion was his only law, And pride led on each various scene. But prosperous days full soon withdrew, _Wealth_ vanish’d like a fairy dream, And _Friendship_ from his moanings flew, And _Love_ forgot his wonted theme. Then turn’d he from his devious path, (A path with many a thorn bestrew’d) From passions wild, and cares that scath, And sought this silent solitude.