The Orchid is a thoughtful plant—­it loves the lordly hot-house,
  And naturally reprobates poor gilliflowers as “pot-house;”
  ’Tis rich, exotic, somewhat miscellaneously florid;
  The rough herbaceous annuals it vulgar deems, and horrid.

  With all that’s forced and precious it should fraternise in reason,
  With luscious fruits and rarest roots, and produce out of season;
  It may perhaps at primroses a condescending hand point;
  It might be friends with stocks—­but from a pure commercial
          standpoint.

  And yet—­it is a thoughtful plant—­though such a growth fastidious,
  The proud but simple strawberry still seems to it invidious;
  Those ducal leaves that shine and twine around the nation’s garden,
  It fancies more delectable than all the blooms of Hawarden.

  This orchid’s bosom bleeds to feel that, while he flaunts in colour,
  The chaplet of the strawberry should duller pine and duller,
  That obsoleteness, though delayed, should still be on the tapis,
  That, pending its extinction, its existence isn’t happy.

  O courtly leaves of strawberries, old England’s grace and glory,
  Emblazoned o’er the castle-keeps that moulder nigh and hoary,
  What comfort for your drooping days, what balm in dire dejection,
  That yonder orchid spruce extends his shelter and protection.

  But, garland sere of Vere de Vere, wan ornaments of Fable,
  The orchid is a thoughtful plant, and likes a gorgeous table;
  And, should from out your coronals one berry bright be shining,
  His patronage may snap it up—­to save it from declining!

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