90 POETICAL LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
When feigning death, thou feltest blest; 
The while thy rounded bosom rose, 
As does a bird’s within its nest, 
Hemmed in with buds of snow-white sloes ; 
When kisses timed thy sweet repose. 
Come to us in a cloud of flowers,— 
Around our hearts their sweets diffuse ; 
Making them like Olympian bowers, 
Where pearly blend with rosy hues. 
Appear as when, through morning dews, 
Thou didst thy mourned Adonis chase, 
And he (poor hunter) did refuse 
To kiss thy never-equalled face,— 
But struggled in thy warm embrace. 
Appear as on Olympus’ brow, 
When all the gods in love were driven, 
And swore, by thy cheeks’ rosy glow, 
That every heart was rent and riven— 
That thou wert Love, and Love was heaven, 
And that the regions of the blest 
Were unto thee for ever given— 
