From the review in The Literary Gazette, 21st October 1837 Page 667-668
The Water-Lily.
Not 'mid the soil and the shadow of earth,
Have we our home, or take we our birth;
Keep ye your valleys that breathe of the rose,
When bendeth the myrtle; we reck not of those.
Low in the waters our palace we make,
Where sweepeth the river, or spreadeth the lake;
And the willow that bends with its green hair above,
Like a lady in grief, is the tree that we love.
At noontide we sleep to the music of shells,
That we bring from the depths of the sea to our cells;
Our cells that are roofed with the crystal, whose light
Is like the young moon’s, on her first summer night.
Strange plants are around us, whose delicate leaves
No hue from the sunshine or moonlight receives;
Yet rich are the colours, as those that are given
When the first hours of April are azure in heaven.
There branches the coral, as red as the lip
Of the earliest rose that the honey-bees sip;
And above are encrusted a myriad of spars,
With the hues of the rainbow, the light of the stars.
Our streams are like mirrors, reflecting the ranks
Of the wild flowers that blossom and bend on our banks;
We give back their beauty—the face is as fair
Of the rose in the wave, as it is on the air.
