Lies slumb'ring mid the leafy bower,
Herself the fairest, frailest flower,—
Before the startled maid can rouse
He breathes his hasty, burning vows,
And while his breast with Bacchus glows,
His lawless love he dares propose.
In vain the angry fair denies,
He better reads her telltale eyes;
And sure of victory ere 'tis won,
His eager suit he urges on;
And when his soft persuasion fails,
Rude, boisterous Bacchus oft prevails:
And thus the wanton god decoys
The youth to wild intemperate joys.
ODE LIII.—ON THE ROSE.[1]
Thou, my friend, shalt sweep the string,
I, in softest strains will sing,
While its fragrance round us flows,
The queen of flowers—the lovely rose.
Its perfumed breath ascends the skies
On every gentle gale that sighs:
Its sweets descend to earth again,
Alike beloved by gods and men.
When Spring awakes the slumbering flowers,
And music breathes amid the bowers,
Thee, darling gem, the Graces wear
Intwined amid their flowing hair;
And rosy wreaths alone may dress
The queen of love and loveliness.
In every song and fable known[2]
The Muses claim thee as their own.
