TO A ROSE. 203 



In thee what odors greet 

 The longing sense, agree ; 



And reign in lovely heat 

 As fountains in the sea. 



Methinks thou hast a tongue 



That answers me again, 

 With lovely Muses hung ; 



O, waste not love in vain ; 

 But let HIS praise be sung, 



Who bade me blush, and reign 

 O'er flowers ; by whom I sprung ; 



The God of land and main ! 



My life, I know, is brief ; 



My crimson shall grow pale ; 

 And I shall shed my leaf, 



And all my odors fail : 

 But this can breed no grief; 



/ love, and shall prevail ; 

 And God shall give relief, 



And raise me up from bale. 



