TO
JAMES
FORBES
,
ESQ
.
ON
HIS
BRINGING
ME
FLOWERS
FROM
VAUCLUSE
,
AND
WHICH
HE
HAD
PRESERVED
BY
MEANS
OF
AN
INGENIOUS
PROCESS
IN
THEIR
ORIGINAL
BEAUTY
.
SWEET
spoils
of
consecrated
bowers
,
How
dear
to
me
these
chosen
flowers
!
I
love
the
simplest
bud
that
blows
,
I
love
the
meanest
weed
that
grows
:
Symbols
of
nature
—
every
form
That
speaks
of
her
this
heart
can
warm
;
But
ye
,
delicious
flowers
,
assume
In
fancy's
eye
a
brighter
bloom
;
A
dearer
pleasure
ye
diffuse
,
Cull'd
by
the
fountain
of
Vaucluse
!
For
ye
were
nurtur'd
on
the
sod
Where
PETRARCH
mourn'd
,
and
LAURA
trod
;
Ye
grew
on
that
inspiring
ground
Where
love
has
shed
enchantment
round
;
Where
still
the
tear
of
passion
flows
,
Fond
tribute
to
a
poet's
woes
!
Yet
,
cherish'd
flowers
,
with
love
and
fame
This
wreath
entwines
a
milder
name
;
Friendship
,
who
better
knows
than
they
The
spells
that
smooth
our
length'ning
way
,
—
Friendship
the
blooming
off'ring
brought
;
When
FORBES
the
classic
fountain
sought
,
For
me
he
cull'd
the
fresh-blown
flowers
,
And
fix'd
their
hues
with
potent
powers
;
Their
pliant
forms
with
skilful
care
He
seized
,
and
stamp'd
duration
there
;
His
gift
shall
ever
glad
the
eye
,
—
Nor
,
like
my
verse
is
born
to
die
.