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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 uprears her stem,
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 my 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.
