The Gaudy Flower

WHY does my Anna toss her head,

And look so scornfully around,

As if she scarcely deign'd to tread

Upon the daisy-dappled ground?

Does fancied beauty fire thine eye,

The brilliant tint, the satin skin?

Does the loved glass, in passing by,

Reflect a graceful form and thin?

Alas! that form, and brilliant fire,

Will never win beholder's love;

It may, indeed, make fools admire,

But ne'er the wise and good can move.

So grows the tulip, gay and bold,

The broadest sunshine its delight;

Like rubies, or like burnish'd gold,

It shows its petals, glossy bright.

But who the gaudy floweret crops,

As if to court a sweet perfume!

Admired it blows, neglected drops,

And sinks unheeded to its doom.

The virtues of the heart may move

Affections of a genial kind;

While beauty fails to stir our love,

And wins the eye, but not the mind.