POETRY OF THE ROSE. 87 



And wipe, with tender hand, away 



The tear that on its blushes lay ! 



'Tis sweet to hold the infant stems. 



Yet dropping with Aurora's gems, 



And fresh inhale the spicy sighs 



That from the weeping buds arise. 



When revel reigns, when mirth is high, 



And Bacchus beams in every eye, 



Our rosy fillets scent exhale, 



And fill with balm the fainting gale ! 



Oh, there is naught in nature bright, 



Where Roses do not shed their light ! 



Where morning paints the orient skies, 



Her fingers burn with roseate dyes ! 



And when, at length, with pale decline, 



Its florid beauties fade and pine, 



Sweet, as in youth, its balmy breath 



Diffuses odors e'en in death ! 



Oh, whence could such a plant have sprung ? 



Attend for thus the tale is sung : 



When humid from the silvery stream, 



Effusing beauty's warmest beam, 



Venus appeared in flushing hues, 



Mellowed by Ocean's briny dews ; 



When, in the starry courts above, 



The pregnant brain of mighty Jove 



Disclosed the nymph of azure glance ! 



The nymph who shakes the martial lance ! 



Then, then, in strange, eventful hour, 



The earth produced an infant flower, 



Which sprung with blushing tinctures dress'd, 



And wanton'd o'er its parent breast. 



The gods beheld this brilliant birth, 



And hail'd the Rose, the born of earth ! 



With nectar drops, a ruby tide, 



The sweetly orient buds they dyed, 



