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Cramp'd by the unyielding chains of Saxon verse,
Suits not the Roman proverb, boldly terse;
Still more unworthy is this pencil faint,
Thy many virtues, lenient Sage, to paint.

And thou, Geranium, half exotic, say,
Why art thou from the ancestral halls away?
Thou need'st no gift that nature did not lend,
Or art improve, or cultivation blend:
Yet if thou better lov'st a sunnier sky,
Breathe there the fragrance that can, never die.
The meek Narcissus next invites our care,
With fragile stalk and efflorescence fair,
Which anxious friendship fears will scarce endure
The world's contagion, with a brow so pure;
Yet this, perchance, may bear the dangerous test,
For heaven's own spirit lives within its breast.

Lure from its home, 'mid green Vermonia's plain,
The English Holly to our classic train,
That fearless, firm, and scorning all disguise,
Where'er it dwells, points upward to the skies.