 | The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison |  |
120
On a Rose gathered, by Laura, in Winter.
While fierce inclement Storms descend,
And Forests with the Winter bend;
While no kind genial Suns appear,
To mollify the frozen Year;
Tell me, Laura, in what Skies
Could this early Rose arise!
Or perhaps the Queen of Love,
A Sister's Kindness for to prove,
Sent it from her Cyprian Grove.
And Forests with the Winter bend;
While no kind genial Suns appear,
To mollify the frozen Year;
Tell me, Laura, in what Skies
Could this early Rose arise!
Or perhaps the Queen of Love,
A Sister's Kindness for to prove,
Sent it from her Cyprian Grove.
But blushing don't deny, my Dear,
If I should tell you how, or where,
You found the little Wonder grow,
Rising from a Bed of Snow:
For we have Reasons to suffice,
'Twas created by your Eyes;
That Nature by a sudden Look
For the Sun their Beams mistook;
They shed their Influence on the Earth;
And smiling blest the fragrant Birth:
By their genial Rays it grew
Sweet in Odour, sweet in Hue,
Full of Beauty, full of you.
If I should tell you how, or where,
121
Rising from a Bed of Snow:
For we have Reasons to suffice,
'Twas created by your Eyes;
That Nature by a sudden Look
For the Sun their Beams mistook;
They shed their Influence on the Earth;
And smiling blest the fragrant Birth:
By their genial Rays it grew
Sweet in Odour, sweet in Hue,
Full of Beauty, full of you.
But whilst you blush, to hear me say,
Things so far from Reason's Way,
You your very self betray.
For 'twas that Blush, with which you glow,
That Blush which e'en revives me too!
That could such wond'rous Influence give;
Create, and make a Flower live.
Things so far from Reason's Way,
You your very self betray.
For 'twas that Blush, with which you glow,
That Blush which e'en revives me too!
That could such wond'rous Influence give;
Create, and make a Flower live.
122
Achilles in the Nymph conceal'd,
Was by the Warrior's Hand reveal'd.
Was by the Warrior's Hand reveal'd.
Then, Laura, since it is your own,
Let a Mother's Love be shown:
In dewy Tears it mourns for Rest,
Then take your Infant to your Breast.
Let a Mother's Love be shown:
In dewy Tears it mourns for Rest,
Then take your Infant to your Breast.
For since at first it sprung from Snow,
And there, 'tis likely, loves to grow;
Your Bosom's the best place I know;
For that not only has the Hue,
But e'en the very Coldness too.
And there, 'tis likely, loves to grow;
Your Bosom's the best place I know;
For that not only has the Hue,
But e'en the very Coldness too.
| The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison | |