









And hear the Zephyr's languid sighs, 



As o'er the scented mead he flies ! 



How sweet to mark the pouting vine, 



Ready to fall in tears of wine! 



How sweet the voice of love to hear, 



And softly whisper in the ear. 



Where the embowering Roses meet, 



Oh ! is not this divinely sweet ? 



While thus we chaunt the wreathed Spring, 



Resplendent Rose! to thee we'll sing; 



Resplendent Rose, the flower of flowers, 



Whose breath perfumes Olympus' bowers ; 



Whose virgin blush, of chasten'd dye, 



Enchants so much our mortal eye. — 



When pleasure's bloomy season glows, 



The Graces love to twine the Rose; 



The Rose is warm Di one's bliss! 



And flushes like Di one's kiss! 



Oft has the Poet's magic tongue 



The Rose's fair luxuriance sung; 



And long the Muses, heav'nly maids, 



Have rear'd it in their tuneful shades, 



When, at the early glance of morn, 



It sleeps upon the glittering thorn. 



'Tis sweet to dare the tangled fence, 



To cull the timid flowret thence, 



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 panting gale ! 



Oh! there is nought in nature bright, 



Where Roses do shed their light! 



When morning paints the orient skies, 



Her fingers burn with roseate dyes! 



The nymphs display the Rose's charms, 



It mantles o'er their graceful arms; 



Through Cytherea's form it glows, 



And mingles with the living snows !_ 



Oh! Whence could such a plant have sprung! 



Attend, for thus the tale is sung. 





