Le Giroflee Poem by Edward Henry Bickersteth

Say what is that sweet flower, whose balmy breath
Floats from afar on the breezes lightsome wings?
Hast thou left the temple and the haunts of death,
Lonely stealing from ruins to grace our kings?
Ah! since terror has bowed down the lily,—our bower,—
Our gardens are mourning—they hail thee their queen!
Without rival thy triumph,—may'st thou, holy flower,
O'er the tomb—and the throne—and the mourner be seen!