I.
TRANSPLANTED from the neighb’ring mead,
Which long her presence grac’d;
The crimson Poppy rear’d her head,
In the rich garden plac’d.
II.
Thence, fann’d by many a gentle gale,
Full oft her scent is borne;
Both when the ev’ning shades prevail,
And at the rise of morn.
III.
At noon, when ev’n without her aid
The flow’rs all droop’d around;
Clytie, bright Phœbus’ love-sick maid,
With all his glories crown’d,
IV.
Still turning to his orb her face,
Survey’d th’ intruding guest;
And, foe to ev’ry sleepy pow’r,
The stranger thus address’d;
V.
“Long have we seen each field-flow’r bloom
“Our cultur’d gardens shame:
“Which, hither brought, triumphant rise,
“And share our nobler fame:
VI.
“Thou, drowsy Poppy, too, at last,
“Our rival dost appear,
“Replete with drugs, whose pois’nous strength
“Corrupts the ambient air.
VII.
“But think not here, insulting weed!
“(Fair Ceres’ hate and bane)
“Thy drowsy magic shall prevail,
“To blot our brighter reign.
VIII.
“Go, seek thy fields; with noxious weeds
“Divide detested sway:
“Or, where thy slumbers nought disturb,
“Shun the glad face of day.
IX.
“Whilst I, to Phœbus ever true,
“Rejoicing in his light;
“To the great God his tribute pay,
“And check the pow’rs of Night.”
X.
She spoke;—The nodding Poppy then,
Serene, made this reply:
“Proud flow’r, I envy not thy state,
“Nor coat of richest dye.
XI.
“What boast’st thou of his genial pow’r,
“Who slighted all thy charms;
“And, in thy beauty’s brightest noon,
“Fled to another’s arms?
XII.
“How didst thou mourn, and how revenge?
“
Leucothoe[18] speaks thy crime;
“Whose odours still to Heav’n ascend,
“And shall to latest time.
XIII.
“Not Love, but Pity, mov’d high Heav’n
“To make thee what thou art;
“And place amidst the blooming flow’rs
“A Nymph with broken heart.
XIV.
“Cease then to vaunt thy heav’nly love,
“Nor me so much despise;
“Full plain th’ advantages appear,
“Which from my pow’r arise.
XV.
“Me Ceres hates not; but my seed
“Great Nature near her sows;
“Where, far unlike a noxious weed,
“The beauteous flow’ret blows.
XVI.
“Sleep, gentle God, the ease of grief,
“To weary man I bring;
“From care and pain the sweetest balm,
“Of vig’rous health the spring.
XVII.
“I, to the wretched friendly still,
“The mourning captives aid;
“My succour to the poor extend,
“And ease the love-sick maid.
XVIII.
“Then what Heav’n order’d for the best,
“Do thou no longer blame:
“Let me old Morpheus’ honours share,
“Joy thou in Phœbus’ flame.
XIX.
“More need I add?—Search Earth around,
“And thou shalt truly say,
“More Virtues in Life’s shade will bloom,
“Than in her blaze of day.”