TO THE CACTUS SPECIOSISSIMUS.
��WHO hung thy beauty on such rugged stalk, Thou glorious flower ?
Who pour'd the richest hues, In varying radiance, o'er thine ample brow, And like a rnesh those tissued stamens laid Upon thy crimson lip ?
Thou glorious flower ! Methinks it were no sin to worship thee, Such passport hast thou from thy Maker's hand, To thrill the soul. Lone on thy leafless stem, Thou bidd'st the queenly rose with all her buds Do homage, and the greenhouse peerage bow Their rainbow coronets.
Hast thou no thought ? No intellectual life ? thou who canst wake Man's heart to such communings ? no sweet word With which to answer him ? 'T would almost seem That so much beauty needs must have a soul, And that such form as tints the gazer's dream
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