Poems (Taggart)/Ode to the Poppy

by Cynthia Taggart

ODE TO THE POPPY. 1825.

Though varied wreaths of myriad hues.
  As beams of mingling light,
Sparkle replete with pearly dews,
Waving their tinted leaves profuse,
  To captivate the sight:

Though fragrance, sweet exhaling, blend
  With the soft, balmy air;
And gentle zephyrs, wafting wide,
  Their spicy odors bear;
   While to the eye,
   Delightingly,
  Each floweret laughing blooms,
   And o'er the fields
   Prolific, yields
  Its incense of perfumes;

Yet one alone o'er all the plain,
  With lingering eye, I view;
Hasty, I pass the brightest bower,
Heedless of each attractive flower,
  Its brilliance to pursue.

No odors sweet proclaim the spot,
  Where its soft leaves unfold;
Nor mingled hues of beauty bright
Charm and allure the captive sight,
  With forms and tints untold.

One simple hue the plant portrays
  Of glowing radiance rare,
Fresh as the roseate morn displays,
  And seeming sweet and fair.

But closer prest, an odorous breath
  Repels the rover gay;
And from her hand with eager haste,
  'T is careless thrown away;

And thoughtless, that in evil hour
Disease may happiness devour,
And her fair form, elastic now,
To misery's wand may hopeless bow.

Then Reason leads wan Sorrow forth,
  To seek this lonely flower;
And blest experience kindly proves
  Its mitigating power.

Then, its bright hue the sight can trace,
  The brilliance of its bloom;
Though misery veil the weeping eyes,
Though sorrow choke the breath with sighs,
  And life deplore its doom.

  This magic flower
  In desperate hour,
A balsam mild shall yield,
  When the sad, sinking heart
  Feels every aid depart,
And every gate of hope for ever sealed;

  Then still its potent charm
  Each agony disarm,
And its all-healing power shall respite give.
  The frantic sufferer, then,
  Convulsed and wild with pain,
Shall own the sovereign remedy, and live.

  The dews of slumber, now,
  Rest on her aching brow;
And o'er the languid lids, balsamic fall;
  While fainting nature hears.
  With dissipated fears,
The lowly accents of soft Somnus' call.

  Then will Affection twine
   Around this kindly flower;
  And grateful memory keep,
  How, in the arms of sleep,
   Affliction lost its power.