Who loves a garden loves a green-house too.
Unconscious of less propitious clime,
There blooms exotic beauty, warm and snug,
While the winds whistle and snows descend.
The spiry myrtle with unwith’ring leaf
Shines there, and flourishes. The golden boast
Of Portugal and western India there,
The ruddier orange, and the paler lime,
Peep through their polish’d foliage at the storm,
And seem to smile at what they need not fear.
Th’ amomum there with intermingling flow’rs
And cherries hangs her twigs. Geranium boasts
Her crimson honours, and the spangled beau,
Ficoides, glitters bright the winter long.
All plants, of ev’ry leaf, that can endure
The winter’s frown, if screen’d from his shrewd bite,
Live there, and prosper . . .