198 
HYACINTH. 
And, sweetest flower, methinks thou hast forgiven 
Him who unconsciously did cause thy death; 
For, soon as thou hadst yielded up thy breath, 
With grief for thee his frantic soul was riven. 
And thou wert placed where mingle wave and breeze 
Their dreamy music with the vocal choir, 
Whose varied harmonies might seem a lyre, 
Striving with dying notes thy soul to please— 
Where winter ne’er ungraciously presumes 
To touch thee with his sacrilegious hand— 
Where thy meek handmaids are the dews so bland— 
Where Spring around thee spreads her choicest blooms. 
’Tis not revenge nor pining wretchedness, 
Thy head in pensive attitude that throws— 
’Tis extreme sensibility, that shows 
In gesture, gratitude speech can’t express. 
E’en while I pay this tributary praise, 
Methinks a deeper tinge thy cheek doth flush; 
What, lovely one, need make thee thus to blush 
And turn away from my enraptured gaze! 
No, gentle Hyacinth, thou canst not grieve, 
When things so lovely worship in thy train— 
The sun, the wind, the wave—Oh! it were vain 
To sum the homage which thou dost receive. 
