What wanton wind, disorderly, fantastic,
Hither impelled thy alien germ, O weed?
Why wasted here was nature's virtue plastic
On such a seed?
Here, where the sumptuous rose and stately lily,
Through the bright hours their crowns effulgent rear,
And with rich perfume in the twilight stilly
Dower the dim air;
Where by the fount its tender beam is brightening,
Sweet eyes are turned to love's benignant star;
Or fairies frolic while the summer lightning
Shimmers afar.
'Mid these choice bowers, in this immaculate garden,
Beauty's loved haunt, pictorial fancy's meed,
Not here, not here may'st thou have place or pardon,
Ungainly weed!
Here float soft melodies of bird and bee,
Rains come at call, and tempered winds blow hither;
Such are for Flora's darlings, — but for thee,
Wither, weed, wither!
