“Go ask of genial BACCHUS’ tree, “Where purple clusters glow; “(Whose juice produces gen’rous wine, “The balm of human woe.)
“Go ask what various ills attend, “That precious balm’s abuse: “Ills that too surely ev’n exceed “Those of my baneful juice.
“Yet baneful _where_? when _mis-apply’d_; “So is each blessing too. “This lesson learn, and know thyself; “Nor rob me of my due.
“Me the grave Leech, who, greatly wise, “Turns Nature’s volume o’er, “Oft snatches from my low abode, “And places in his store.
“There, amongst health-bestowing plants, “He ranks my honour’d name; “And, whilst he well employs _my_ pow’rs, “Exalts _himself_ to fame.
“Thus death and life alike are _mine_, “Neither to _thee_ belong: “Though oft’ by poets most admir’d, “The theme of idle song.
“Be thou so still; but ne’er despise “Those gifts thou canst not share: “But keep this maxim in thy heart, “_The_ USEFUL _is the_ FAIR.”
She said—abash’d the JASMINE heard, And hung her drooping head; She saw, _That_ NATURE’S _works were good_, And all her Boasting fled.
Rich in a thousand beauteous dyes, The sweet CARNATION stood; While with a proud disdainful eye The SOUTHERNWOOD she view’d.
“Great is thy Pride,” the flow’r exclaim’d, “To place thee near my side; “For ev’n to grow in this retreat, “Argues thy matchless pride.
“Say, what art thou, thyself no flow’r, “That dar’st intrude thee here; “’Midst plants fit for a prince’s bow’r, “Flow’rs fit for kings to wear?
“Whate’er I am,” the Plant reply’d, “My post I well maintain; “And chearful lend my needful aid, “Where thine, alas! were vain.
“Say, could thy flow’rs of brightest dye “_Infection’s_ force withstand? “Ah! what could all thy beauties do, “If plagues laid waste the land?
“Mean as I am, the task is mine, “To purge th’ unwholesome air; “To clear the brain, the blood refine, “And seat HYGEIA[28] there.
“Nay farther still;—thyself shalt own “How oft’ I’m join’d with thee; “And thy bright blossoms brighter bloom, “Because they’re plac’d by me.
“Are not the _various tints_, which deck “This scene, the Florist’s pride? “ME then, imperious! venerate “For pow’rs to thee deny’d.—
“Say, if each warbler of the grove “Should chuse the self-same strain; “Would the tir’d ear the concert please, “Or wish to hear again?