The Anemones of the Pamfili Dori.
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But down he stoop'd to fret the sod Beneath the pine's dark shade,With reverence laid the exile down Where sun-light never strayed.
Though it was born in shadeless clime, Beneath hot Asia's skies,Yet chose he now the dark moist bank, Where feathery ferns entice.
But stranger still, and wonderful, These scarlet flowers rare,Then lost the dye of the crimson flood— Was it by Christian's tear?
The blaze from off its cheek has fled, 'Tis faded, washed, aye gone,—Still beautiful, tho' other shades Now paint the grassy lawn.
Anemones, so rich, and fair, So beautiful, so sweet,Well do ye e'en now typify Prints of Apostles' feet!
