THE ROSE GARDEN. O 



subject of his Fifty-third Ode, wherein the poet considers it sacred, and accounts 

 for its origin in a marvellous manner. 



While Spring with lavish flow'rets glows, 

 From the gay wreath I '11 pluck the Rose, 

 The queen of fragrance will display. — 

 Oh ! pour, my friend, th' accordant lay. 

 Dear to earth, thy smiling bloom ! 

 Dear to heav'n thy rich perfume ! 

 Sacred to the sportive hour, 

 When the loves, from flower to flower, 

 Blithely trip ; the Graces fail- 

 Bind thy treasui-es to their hair ; 

 By the Paphian queen caress'd, 

 Seated on her snowy breast. 



Nymphs, who haunt th' embow'ring shades, 



Poesy's enchanting maids, 



Woo thee, Rose ; thy charms inspire 



All the raptures of the lyre. 



Cull we straight th' inviting Rose ; 



Shielded by the thorn it grows. 



Cull the Rose : what boots the smart ? 



Boundless sweets regale the heart. 



Pluck it not : the flow'ry gem 

 Unwilling quits its parent stem. 

 Round the feast of fragrance rove ; 

 But gently touch the Rose of love. 

 Mid the sons of Comus spread 

 Blooms the Rose's living red ; 

 Chaplet for the thirsty soul, 

 Well it crowns the purple bowl. 



Hark, the bard ! his numbers pour 

 Incense to the sacred flower. 

 The rosy-fingered beam of light 

 Undraws the curtain of the night. 

 Health's blushing Rose the virgin streaks, 

 And paints the down of Venus' cheeks. 



Lovely Rose ! thy genial power 

 Sweetly soothes the sickly hour ; 

 O'er the grave thy fragrance shed ; 

 We sink in quiet to the dead. 

 When the envious hand of Time 

 Nips the honours of thy prime, 

 Fresh in youth thy odours bear 

 Richness to the ambient air. 



Say from whence the Rose divine 

 Bids th' unrivalled lustre shine ? 

 From the liquid caves of night, 

 When Cytiierea waked to light — 

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