TO A EOSE. 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; 
I love, and shall prevail; 
And God shall give relief. 
And raise me up from bale. 
