The Rose

Sweet serene sky-like flower,

Haste to adorn her bower;

From thy long cloudy bed

Shoot forth thy damask head!

New-startled blush of Flora,

The grief of pale Aurora,

Who will contest no more,

Haste, haste to strew her floor!

Vermilion ball that's given

From lip to lip in heaven,

Love's couch's coverlet,

Haste, haste to make her bed!

Dear offspring of pleased Venus

And jolly plump Silenus,

Haste, haste to deck the hair

Of the only sweetly fair!

See! rosy is her bower,

Her floor is all this flower;

Her bed a rosy nest

By a bed of roses pressed.

But early as she dresses,

Why fly you her bright tresses?

Ah! I have found, I fear,—

Because her cheeks are near.