Anacreon, the poet of love, has celebrated the rose; and, 
perhaps, he has sung its praise more worthily than any of his 
successors. Moore has thus translated the Ode. 
While we invoke the wreathed spring, 
Resplendent rose ! to thee we ’ll sing; 
Resplendent rose, tjie flower of flowers, 
Whose breath perfumes Olympus’ boweisr 
Whose virgin blush, of chastened dye, 
Enchants so much our mortal eye. 
When pleasure’s bloomy season glows, 
The Graces love to twine the rose; 
The rose is warm Dione’s bliss, 
An d flushes like Dione’s kiss! 
Oft has the poet’s magic tongue ? 
The rose’s fair luxuriance sung: 
An d long the Muses, heavenly maids, 
Have reared 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 floweret 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 fainting gale. 
