Select poems of Edward Hovel Thurlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

For of Gods the breath it is;
For of men the holy bliss;
The Graces' ornament, in hours
When Love is crown'd with many flowers,
For Love delights in Summer tide—
The Rose is Paphia's playful pride.

Great argument of fables this;
The Muses' gracious plant it is;
Sweet or to him, who danger knows,
Walking in thorny paths, the Rose!
Or sweet the Rose to him, who takes
With gentle hand, and gently shakes

The dewy and the fragrant flower
Of Love, and scents the joyous power.

And also to the learned head
Great joy of the sweet Rose is bred,
At feasts and tables, ripe delights,
Especially at Bacchus' rites.

For what without the Rose can be?
The Morn we rosy-finger'd see;
And rosy-arm'd the Nymphs; and she,
Venus, daughter of the sea,
Who takes her praise of poets due,
For what? why, for her rosy hue.

Nay, to men, whom health has fled,
New health her rosy odours shed:
Nay more, when life itself hath fled;
She is of service to the dead:
And Time she binds by strength: the Rose
An age of gracious pleasure knows;
And yet with youthful odour glows.

Come, then; we will her being sing;
Whence heav'nly-blushing Roses spring:
When from the gently looking wave,
Sprinkled with dew, blithe Ocean gave,
And born of foam, Cythera brave;
And Jove, above, delivered plain
War-thundering Pallas from his brain,
A sight that, to Olympus dread!
Earth rear'd the godlike Rose's head,
And gave the wondrous birth to light,
Blushing, like Courts of Heaven, bright!

But, clothed whence in golden state?
The blessed Gods in Council sate,
The Rose with wisdom to create;
And, steeping Nectar, caus'd to rise
A flower, to match the crimson skies;
To flourish, queen-like, from the thorn—
The plant t' immortal Bacchus born!