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He pluck'd the iris, deeply blue, The amaryllis, bright, And stor'd their treasures through the day, But cast them forth at night.

He bound the water-lily white. Amid her lustrous hair, But found her black and flashing eye Requir'd a gem more rare.

At length, beside its mantling pool, Majestic and serene, He saw the proud Lobelia tower In beauty, like a queen.

That eve, the maiden's ebon locks Reveal'd its glowing power, Amid the simple, nuptial rites That grac'd the chieftain's bower.

But she, who, by that stately flower, Her lover's preference knew. Was doom'd, alas! in youthful bloom, To share its frailty, too;

For ere again its scarlet spire Rejoic'd in summer's eye, She droop'd amid her forest home— Her fount of life was dry.