No Bard e'er gave his tuneful powers, Thus to traduce the fame of flowers; Till Darwin sung his gossip tales, Of females woo'd by @3twenty@1 males. Of @3Plants@1 so given to amorous pleasure; Incontinent beyond all measure. He sings that in botanic schools, Husbands adopt licentious rules; Plurality of Wives they wed, And all they like—they take to bed. That Lovers sigh with @3secret@1 love, And marriage rites clandestine, prove. That, fann'd in groves their mutual fire, They to some Gretna @3Green@1 retire. Linneus things, no doubt, reveal'd, Which prudent @3Plants@1 would wish conceal'd; So free of @3families@1 he spoke, As must that modest race provoke. Till he invaded Flora's bowers None heard of marriage among flowers; Sexual distinctions were unknown; Discover'd by the Swede alone. He blab'd through all the list'ning groves, The mystick rites of @3flow'ry loves.@1 He pry'd in every blossom's fold, And all he saw unseemly—told. Blab'd tales of many a @3feeble@1 swain; Unmeet to join in Flora's train; Unless appointed by her care, Like Turkish guards to watch the fair. These @3vegetable monsters@1 claim, Alliance with the Eunuch's name. In every herb and tree that grows; Some frail propensity he shows. But then in prose Linneus prattles, And soon forgot is all he tattles. While memory better pleas'd retains, The frolicks of poetic brains. So when the Muse with strains like thine Enchantment breathes through every line; That Reason pausing makes a stand, Control'd by Fiction's magic hand. Enamour'd we the verse pursue, And feel each fair delusion true. Luxuriant thought thy mind o'ergrows; Such painting from thy pencil flows; Warm to my sight the visions rise, And thy rich fancy mine supplies. Thy themes rehearsing in my bower; From those I picture ev'ry flower; With thy descriptive forms imprest, I see them in thy colours drest; Rememb'ring all thy lays unfold, The snow-drop @3freezes@1 me with @3cold.@1 I hear the @3love-sick@1 violet's sighs, And see the hare-bell's @3azure eyes.@1 See @3jealous cowslips@1 hang their heads, And @3virgin lilies@1—pine in beds. The primrose meets my tinctur'd view, Far paler than before—she grew. While Woodbines @3wanton@1 seem to twine, And reeling shoots the @3maud'ling vine.@1 If e'er I seek the @3Cypress@1 shade, Whose branches contemplation aid. Of learned lore my thoughts possest, Might dwell on mummies in a chest. Unperishable chests 'tis said, Where the Egyptian dead were laid, Are of the Cypress timber made. And gates of Rome's fam'd church they say, Defying mould'ring time's decay; From Constantine to Pope Eugene, Eleven hundred years were seen, In perfect state of sound and good, Form'd of this Adamantine wood. Then, DARWIN! were it not for thee, I sure must venerate this tree. But as his boughs hang o'er my head, I recollect from you I read, @3His wife he exiles from his bed.@1 Since thus thy fascinating art, So takes possession of the heart, Go bid thy Muse a wreath prepare, "To bind some charming Chloe's hair." But tune no more thy Lyre's sweet powers, To libel harmless trees and flowers. |