Here lies a bulb, the child of earth,

Buried alive beneath the clod,

Ere long to spring, by second birth,

A new and nobler work of God.

‘Tis said that microscopic power

Might through its swaddling folds descry

The infant-image of the flower,

Too exquisite to meet the eye.

This, vernal suns and rains will swell,

Till from its dark abode it peep,

Like Venus rising from her shell,

Amidst the spring-tide of the deep.

Two shapely leaves will first unfold,

Then, on a smooth elastic stem,

The verdant bud shall turn to gold,

And open in a diadem.

Not one of Flora’s brilliant race

A form more perfect can display;

Art could not feign more simple grace,

Nor Nature take a line away.

Yet, rich as morn of many a hue,

When flushing clouds through darkness strike,

The tulip’s petals shine in dew,

All beautiful, — but none alike.

Kings, on their bridal, might unrobe

To lay their glories at its foot;

And queens their sceptre, crown, and globe,

Exchange for blossom, stalk, and root.

Here could I stand and moralise;

Lady, I leave that part to thee;

Be thy next birth in Paradise,

Thy life to come eternity!