University of Virginia Library

The sun now shone with evening ray,
The skies were bright, the fields were gay,
Each bank was flowery, and the gale
Of zephyr stole along the vale.
By the banks of winding Thame,
Where twining trees an arbour frame,
Whose boughs with Woodbine hung among,
The earliest birds renew their song,
Was the fair Clarinda seen,
Reposing on a grass-bank green.
Oft has the Thames beheld fair maids
Laid on his bank in bowery shades,
Or seated in the barge that glides
To gentle music thro' his tides,
But never Thames in secret haunt
Of shady bower where woodbines flaunt,
Nor yet in barge whose oary feet
Move to the sounds of music sweet,
Has seen a nymph, with youthful air,
Fairer than Clarinda fair.

But from the green bower where she lay
The virgin markt the flowers of May,
Which to her sight the garden spread,
Waving with many a purple head;
Apart, or rising in thick rank,
In covert, or on sunny bank.
The gay Auricula she views
Her painted leaf with dust that strews;
Hyacinth in blood embrew'd
Of hero bold; Jonquil endu'd
With fragrant breath; Narcissus pale,
Of sorrow that records a tale;
The families of Pinks, and mixt
The Polyanthus bright betwixt.

But most the nymph delighted saw,
Displaying hues that well might draw
The eye of maid, the splendid row
Of Tulips, now in brightest blow.
Beside a bank where wildly grew
Stately Cypress, darker Yew,
Where waving stood the Laurel grove,
And Eglantine with Lilac strove,
Stretcht by the river, in long lines,
A blooming bed of Tulips shines.
Bright was each Tulip by the wave,
That to the breeze its gay head gave,
But far surpassing all the rest,
In gayest-colour'd mantle drest,
Not from the Laurels far was seen
One Tulip, of her tribe the queen.
Than this no brighter flower e'er sprung
In seats which oft the muse has sung,
To delight the lovely maid,
In the green vale of Tempé laid;
Than this no brighter flower e'er spread
Near winding Thames its purple head,
To delight the fairer dame
Laid in the matchless vale of Thame.
Her glances oft Clarinda threw
Where this peerless Tulip grew,
Then to the gale that whispers round
These accents gave, with gentle sound.

“Tulip, deckt with colours rare,
“What gay flower may with thine compare?
“The courtly nymph delights to gaze,
“On the radiant diamond's blaze,
“Or with admiring look beholds
“The ray that lucid pearl unfolds;
“Nor less thy leaf delights my sight,
“Waving with all its colours bright;
“And yet, why should thy leaf remain
“To bloom on dewy bank in vain?
“The diamond sparkles in the hair,
“Or lovely bosom of the fair;
“The pearly rows conspire to deck
“The snowy whiteness of the neck,
“O! come, then, and a virgin grace,
“Brightest of the Tulip race.”

She said, and rises from the grass,
With light foot thro' the flowers to pass,
Light as the gale that summer sends,
When scarce the Cowslip's head it bends;
And now the humid bank she treads,
Where its gay leaf the Tulip spreads.
Thrice she stretcht forth her hand to crop
From the green stalk the flowery top;
Thrice did some power unseen restrain
Her tender hand stretcht forth in vain;
But is there power that may withstand
Long a fair nymph, with virgin hand;
The envied flower she now attains,
Nor yet the leaf alone she gains;
But ah! why should a gentle maid
With touch so rude the flowers invade,
She plucks too rashly from its bed
The root which that fair Tulip fed:
The root with careless hand she throws
To perish where the Laurel grows;
But in her breast, where dwell the Graces,
The bloomy leaf with care she places.
O! Tulip, happy shall he be,
Who may that bosom touch like thee!

The sun shoots mild rays thro' the grove,
On lightest wing the Zephyrs rove
Thro' whispering trees; the Blackbird shrill,
And Thrush the wood with warblings fill.
Clarinda scarce her limbs reposes,
When sleep, soft power, her eye-lids closes.
The warbling birds, the whispering trees,
Steal from her ear by slow degrees
Their dying sounds away, 'till bound
In pleasing chains, she prest the ground:
And now it was when dreams repair
To sooth at eve the slumbering fair,
That softly whispering in her ear,
Clarinda seem'd a voice to hear,
Whose sound the virgin not before
Had heard, on hill or breezy shore.
Soft was the whisper, like the strain
Sometimes heard by simple swain,
Who haply slumbers near the streams
Silver'd o'er with moonlight gleams,
Where with her train the Fairy Queen
Delights to sport upon the green.
And now the nymph began to show
A rising blush of deeper glow;
And now beneath the flowery leaves
Her snowy bosom faster heaves,
While the voice unknown, with breath
More sweet than is the fragrant wreath,
Stole these accents to her ear,
Nor did the passing zephyr hear.

“Along the green bank art thou laid,
Sunk in balmy sleep, O maid!
Lull'd by the whispering gales, and song
Of tuneful birds the boughs among;
Yet nor the tuneful birds, nor sound
Of whispering gales that pant around,
Thy senses would in slumbers bind,
Lovely nymph of gentle mind.
If now thy tender bosom thought,
What mighty ills thy hand has wrought,
Since this green toft beheld thee pass,
With hasty tread along the grass.
Alas! why did the breath of May,
Invite thee near the Thames to stray?
Alas! why wast thou led to haunt
This arbour where the Blackbirds chaunt?

Would'st thou know, O nymph! that hear
These plaintive strains with wond'ring ear;
Wouldst thou know why in sad strains
Of thee my feeble voice complains!
Then while the sun goes down the west,
And zephyrs breath prolongs thy rest,
Mixt with the notes of Blackbird sweet,
Attend a soft strain not unmeet
The ear of gentle nymph to take,
Slumb'ring, or in green bower awake.

Hast thou not heard what oft of old,
In sacred strains the muse has told?
The Muse has told, O! gentle fair,
That in each tree, which high in air
Waves its green head, on plain or hill,
By silent lake or murmuring rill,
Enshrined, sits a nymph like thee,
The guardian of the waving tree,
Who in the trunk delights to lie
Unseen, save by the Muse's eye.
Such nymph nor spreading Plantane wants,
Nor sturdy Oak his foot that plants
Rude cliffs between, nor Cedar, prime
Of stateliest trees, nor flowering Lime,
Whose scents the grove with fragrance fill,
Nor Pine that loves the naked hill.
Soon as each tender tree is seen,
Aspiring from the grassy green,
Within its secret trunk a maid
Of pure etherial frame is laid;
She to her charge the young plant takes,
Nor e'er its swelling trunk forsakes,
'Till by slow time, consuming all,
Or by fierce flames the green tree fall;
Or woodman, with his sturdy blow,
Has laid the towering forest low:
Then the sad nymph forsakes the groves,
And thro' the sky reluctant roves.

Nor yet these guardian nymphs in vain,
Within the waving trees remain;
In vain would kindly suns and showers,
Strive with green leaves to deck the bowers,
If kindly suns and showers to aid,
There dwelt not in each tree a maid.
She marks when earliest in the spring
The gentle zephyr spreads his wing,
And as they softly sweep the vales,
Catches the breath of summer gales:
She marks the pale ray of the moon,
The golden beam which flies at noon,
And dewy showers which evening sheds,
Or purple morn on Primrose beds,
Taught from each Heavenly beam to draw
Virtues rare by sacred law;
And from the deep-cast root to guide
Thro' the green trunk the juicy tide.
Thus by the wholesome culture drest,
Of nymphs that in their bosom rest,
The trees their leafy tresses wear,
And all their various honours bear.
Hawthorns blossom; on the shore
The Poplars weep their precious store;
The Vine displays her purple grape
On sunny wall; in spiry shape
Grows the tall Fir, and Forests brown
Wave high, the mountain's side to crown.

Thus oft the tuneful Muse of old,
Of nymphs that dwell in trees has told;
Nor let a gentle maid refuse
To trust the lay of tuneful Muse.
But now let birds with sweetest sound,
Entice soft sleep to hover round,
Whilst with a strain thy ear I fill,
Which never from her sacred hill
The Muse has uttered on sweet lyre,
The thought of poet to inspire.

When genial spring the year renews,
Fair flowers arise, Iris all hues;
Primrose that not from cold will shrink,
The Daffodil and spotted Pink;
The summer sun Carnation meets,
Tuberose fraught with odorous sweets,
And bending to the breezes oft
Lilies that rear their heads aloft.
On these, O! nymph, and every flower,
That drinks the dew, or falling shower,
In open lawn or bowery maze,
Thou 'custom'd oft hast been to gaze;
But has it yet to thee been told
What inmates soft the gay flowers hold?
Ah! not alone the tree that shoots
Deep into central earth its roots,
While on its green head rest the clouds,
A nymph within its covert shrouds.
Know that each flower which to the spring
Delights its early scents to fling,
Or which the summer gale displays,
Ling'ring thro' autumn's milder days,
Carnation that by happier lot
In garden blooms in curious knot;
Or Harebell, that in fields unknown,
With gaudy Columbine is blown;
Within its cup, in tender folds,
Unseen, a gentle virgin holds;
Whose purer frame and cares agree,
With those of nymph in waving tree.

Vainly thinks the youth forlorn,
Whose lonely foot a path has worn
Thro' moonlight glades, where his sad strain
Tells of some coy nymph's cold disdain;
That the pale moon, that sits above,
Alone has heard his tale of love.
Where'er, with wand'ring step, he treads
Primrose banks or daizied meads,
In all the flowers around him blown,
Soft nymphs there are, unseen, unknown,
That listen his sad voice to hear,
Complaining of the fair one dear.
Nor yet unpitying in the vale,
Hear these nymphs the lover's tale:
Oft as thy heaving breast, fond swain,
In broken sighs pours forth its pain,
Oft as the falling tears declare,
Bedewing thy pale cheek, thy care,
The nymphs, in flowery banks that lie,
With sighs and tears to thee reply,
Accusing in their secret thought,
The fair whose pride thy woe has wrought.

And little the vain florist knows,
Who marks with pride his flowery rows,
Little knows he to whose care
He owes each flower of texture rare.
What tho' along the sunny bank,
Carnation he, or Crocus rank;
What tho' he bathe the thirsty flowers,
At noon or eve with timely showers,
How little would his skill have gain'd,
Unless each flower a nymph contain'd?
She bids the bursting gem unfold,
The leaf she dyes with streaks of gold,
And liberal on the flower she flings,
Scents stole from zephyr's dewy wings.
These are the labours of her days,
Nor from her soft abode she strays,
Till haply the frail flower, at last,
Uprooted from its bed is cast,
Or nipt by frost 'midst wintry gloom,
No more in genial spring to bloom;
Then the sad nymph her flower forsakes,
And thro' the sky her slow flight takes.

O! hast thou seen the flowers of May,
Nor thought that nymphs these flowers array?
Go, mark the garden in its pride;
Go, mark the lonely fountain's side;
With Pink, or Cowslip wild beset,
Violet, or Pansy freak'd with jet.
Then as thy eyes admiring trace,
The beauties of the flowery race,
Whose scents and hues of various light,
No tuneful Muse may tell aright;
Whose ranks the busy florists strain,
To part in kindred tribes in vain;
O! say, what power could thus supply,
The leaf, the stem, the various dye,
Save the nice art, and fancy fine,
Of nymph with genius like to thine?

Nor ask, why on the flowery row,
Each matchless hue the nymphs bestow.
Alike all female bosoms share
The care of beauty, pleasing care!
The virgin of thy race is blest,
By whom are brighter charms possest;
Ruby lip, or dimpled cheek,
Where to abide the Graces seek;
And much inclines she to admire,
Rich ornaments, and vain attire,
Delighted her soft limbs to fold,
In silken mantle wove with gold;
And borrowing lustre from the glow
Of diamond, or the pearly row.
Nor less the virgin in her flower,
Is sway'd by beauty, pleasing power!
She joys beneath the summer skies,
With colours which her skill supplies;
Azure or crimson, purple, gold,
A flower, gay sprinkled, to unfold;
Blest, if the soft leaf, where she dwells,
In shape, or curious dye, excells:
Blest, if amidst her kindred train,
The prize of beauty she may gain.
For this the flowery sisters vie,
And every art inventive try;
For this each little bosom burns,
And hopes, exults, and fears, by turns.
Thus by the fond ambition drest,
Of nymphs that beauty's praise contest,
In garden, or in forest walk,
Fair flowers arise on tender stalk,
With thousand various colours wrought,
As fancy prompts the virgin's thought.
From the gay goddess of the dawn,
Crocus her saffron robe has drawn;
The Star-flower purple rays surround;
More bright Anemonies are found,
In vest of scarlet hue to flame,
Nor Gold-flower bears in vain her name;
Carnation loves with simple white
Tints more vivid to unite;
The Roses blush, and by their side,
Lilly is drest like virgin bride.

But of the nymphs that dwell in flowers,
By lake or spring, in lawns or bowers,
Most the care of beauty sways,
Thro' anxious nights and busy days,
The sisters who their limbs recline,
Where the gay leaves of Tulips shine.
O! hast thou not, fair nymph, repos'd,
Where Tulips proud their state disclos'd,
With wond'ring eye the bright ranks trac'd,
Waving, with rich profusion grac'd,
Of colours, that conspiring shed,
A glory round the Tulip bed,
Whilst every painted flower is drest,
In hues still vary'd from the rest?
Pride of the garden, when array'd,
With all its bloomy tribes display'd,
In lustre of gay mingling dyes,
And colours varying as they rise,
Surpassing all the flowery crew,
The peerless Tulips drink the dew.
The contests of a virgin train,
The praise of beauty to attain,
Profusely on the Tulip row,
Bestow those matchless tints, whose glow
May well the splendid sapphire shame,
Or chrysolite, or ruby's flame;
Nor yet in princely bower, I ween,
Where oft the splendid rank is seen,
Of nymphs that with each other vie,
In graces dazzling to the eye,
More jealousies, O maid, abound,
Than in each Tulip-bed are found;
Where virgins in the bloomy rank,
Contend along the sunny bank,
Who may of colours, that delight,
Obtain the prime to charm the sight.

Softly blow, ye gales of May,
To aid the nymphs that now display,
In a gay robe of colours fair
Their Tulips to the balmy air;
And thou, to whom my lays unfold
This simple tale, no more behold,
With undiscerning eyes in vain,
The brightest of the flowery train.
Oft as the Tulips draw thy look,
Gently by the zephyrs shook,
Unfolding in their borders bright,
Each hue of many-colour'd light;
That little race unseen admire,
Whose hands have labour'd to attire,
In splendid vests, the shining row,
And taught a thousand tints to glow;
And as thy words, with praises due,
The virgins happy skill pursue,
Along the green slope musing laid,
Oft picture in thy thought, O! maid,
The mighty combats that they wage,
Their rivalships and secret rage;
Whilst emulous the leaf within,
The gayest colour'd robe to win,
The sisters try each powerful art,
And hues of new device impart.

O! nymph, let not thy gentle ear,
This artless tale mistrustful hear;
Nor think that she whose strains unfold,
The cares of maids whom soft flowers hold,
Has been unconscious of the care
Which all the flowery sisters share.
Of that small race, unseen, who lye
In purple flowers, a nymph was I;
Nor unregarded did I dwell,
In Violet in the lonely dell,
Or Cowslip low of small renown;
Whose yellow flowers the meadow crown.
But where the bloomy garden opes
Its flowery pride, and gently slopes
Its walks, the banks of Thames to grace;
I in a Tulip held my place,
Of nymphs among the prime confest,
Of that gay train who most contest
The praise of tints, and garden rare,
Deck with bright flowers beyond compare.

Hast thou forgot when evening tide,
Led thee to seek the Thames' cool side,
How in these flowery knots thy look,
A Tulip gently waving took?
Hast thou forgot how in its prime,
That Tulip, O! lament the crime,
Thy hand uprooted from its place,
Thy bosom with its leaf to grace?
In that fair Tulip, whose bright dye
Thy look attracted, laid was I;
The nymph who had its leaf display'd,
And every vivid tint pourtray'd;
Thrice happy in my mansion gay,
Till wayward fates thee led to stray,
The silver streams of Thames beside,
To mark the garden in its pride,
And snatch, untimely from its bed
The root which my fair Tulip fed.
Then to the passing zephyrs cast
Into the fleeting air I past.

Then ask not why I thee addrest,
With soft complaint when laid at rest:
Thou hast not known how I had strove,
That leaf to weave, so finely wove,
Or how with conscious worth elate,
Within the waving flower I sate.
Now little 'vails the plaintive strain,
Yet, O! indulgent to my pain,
While on this bank thy limbs are cast,
And slumber seals thy eye-lids fast,
Hear me awhile, in artless lays,
Relate the labours of my days;
Nor yet these labours let the pride
Of the courtly dame deride.
What tho', O! nymph of matchless grace,
Far nobler is thy lovely race,
Than is the race of nymphs that dwell
Within the flowers of balmy smell;
What tho' no leaf of dewy rose,
A blush like to thy cheek disclose,
Nor may the breath of Jassmine fair,
Or Woodbine with thy breath compare;
Yet if the cares aright I tell,
And joys with which our bosoms swell,
Thou, in our kind, wilt haply trace,
The passions of thy nobler race.

Soon as the wintry storms retir'd,
With powerful love of beauty fir'd,
I rose, these labours to begin,
Which praise to beauteous Tulips win:
I lay not in soft ease repos'd,
When dewy eve the Violets clos'd;
Nor would the sway of slumber brook,
When tuneful Larks their nests forsook.
Earliest my prayers I renew
To mild Aurora dropping dew;
To zephyr flitting thro' the green,
And Flora of our race the queen.
But of my toils why shouldst thou hear,
In strains ill-suited to thy ear?
Think what cares possess the mind
Of some fair virgin of thy kind,
When she on mighty triumphs bent,
Each rival to outshine intent,
Sits at her toilette to pursue
Thro' the long hours the labours due,
Studious each powerful grace to seek,
'Till brighter blushes paint her cheek,
'Till keener rays her glances arm,
And beauty puts on every charm;
Then may'st thou know my care and thought,
Whilst with ambitious toil I sought,
Among the nymphs of Tulip line,
The first in matchless flower to shine,

At length, unfolded by my hands,
In summer pride my Tulip stands.
Fair are the Lillies, Violets blue,
And yellow is the Cowslip's hue;
The Hyacinth opes purple tints,
But every various dye that prints,
The mingled flowers of garland sweet,
In my bright leaf was seen to meet.
Now Flora as she trod the lawn,
Would oft draw near at early dawn,
To praise the colours of the flower;
Now every Naiad from her bower,
My Tulip in its bloom would name
The brightest on the banks of Thame.
But by the wave, and on each bank,
Where Tulips wave in shining rank,
Each rival maid in grief reclin'd
Her head, and with dark envy pin'd.

O! did thy eye, while thro' the grove,
Thy eye was free at large to rove,
With withering leaf a Tulip mark,
Waving near a Cypress dark?
The painted robe of many dyes,
Worn by Iris in the skies,
Resplendent once that Tulip wore;
But now, alas! it wears no more.
Yet not pale age, or beating storm,
Bereft that Tulip of its form.
Its silken leaf a virgin wove,
Who long with rival pride had strove,
Amidst the bloomy tribes to shine,
In mantle gay surpassing mine:
From every flower in summer seen,
She knew to draw bright tints, I ween;
And mix these tints with fancy new,
Yet vain were all the arts she knew:
These banks that saw the rival fair,
These banks beheld her dire despair,
When the contested prize to me,
The nymphs of Flora's train decree.
No longer then the maid forlorn,
Would strive her Tulip to adorn;
But sad she sate the live-long day,
Sighing to the gales that stray,
And from her leaf regardless saw,
Untimely each bright tint withdraw;
'Till drooping the shrunk flower retains
Of former beauty no remains.

But how, in fit strains, shall I tell,
The joys that now my bosom swell?
O! think, for thee each joy possest,
By conscious beauty, nymph, has blest,
What pleasures to thy share then fall,
At glittering court, or splendid ball;
Thy dress by fancy's hand compos'd,
Each wonder of thy face disclos'd;
When round thy steps, in silken dress,
A train of bright admirers press,
Who on thy looks, in soft amaze,
With silent adoration gaze;
Or thro' the circle spread thy name,
'Till the long rooms resound thy fame,
Whilst each fair rival strives in vain
To win one follower from thy train,
And blushes quick, and frowns declare,
Her discontent, and hidden care;
O! think what pleasures then possess
Thy youthful bosom, nymph, and guess
What mighty joys my breast delight,
Joys never to be told aright,
When 'mid the Tulip rows confest,
My Tulip shines above the rest.

Now on each gay flower, as it shook,
I cast a proud disdainful look,
And long, I said, my leaf should stand,
The glory of the flowery band.
O! beauty, that still entertain
Delusive hopes, and prospects vain,
Elated with thy present state,
But blind, alas! to future fate!
In vain each wiser nymph whom age,
And thought mature, had rendered sage,
In leaf with simple colours prankt,
Beside the Yew or Myrtle rankt,
Reprov'd my rising pride, and told,
What transient hues the flowers unfold.
In vain the sober train relate,
In serious mood, the wrath of fate,
That oft the shower of beating rain
Bends the gay Tulip to the plain;
That oft the painted leaf is torn
By youthful maid, who roves at morn:
Or if the rains no ills prepare,
And roving maid the leaf shall spare,
That soon, alas! too envious time
Must snatch the Tulip from its prime.
The serious strain of sober age,
May not my careless ear engage.
Still of my youthful bloom aware,
Intent on conquest, I prepare
Each gay variety to try
Of hues fresh beauties to supply,
And meditate, with long forecast,
To add new triumphs to the past:
Alas! unheeding of mischance,
That now the winged hours advance,
When ruin on my head impends,
And all my boasted glory ends.

When last her dews Aurora shed,
A nymph beside yon Violet bed,
Aspiring to my fame, displays
Her Tulip to the morning rays.
The gay leaf parts in many streaks;
The nymphs admire it as it breaks;
Each colour of high price they deem,
But most one purple tint esteem,
Of which the nymph was passing proud,
Stol'n from the skirt of fleecy cloud,
On which, descending to the West,
The sun his golden beam imprest.
To gain that colour I aspire,
Which all the flowery race admire;
Each art, by custom taught, I try;
Nor when the sun ascends the sky,
Nor when with noon-tide beam he shines,
My busy hand its tasks declines.
The flowery nymphs forget their care,
And all our eager contest share.
The sun now shoots his evening rays,
And now the leaf my toils repays.
I see the envied colour dawn
More vivid on my gay flower drawn:
My praise the Tulip-bed resounds,
Sorrow the rival-fair confounds;
I sit elate with fond delight,
When, lo! O mark the fell despight
Of fate too envious of my flower!
Led by the zephyr's balmy power,
To this green arbour to repair,
With eager hand and threat'ning air,
I see thee, hostile nymph, draw near,
And tremble with prophetic fear.

But need I in sad measure tell
The dire disaster that befell?
O hapless chance, that beauty shares,
Whose brightest lustre but ensnares,
And oft the fair, in careless days,
To ruin unforeseen betrays!
Happy, thrice happy, had I been,
If in dark cell, or glade unseen,
Fast by some lonely fountain's side,
Far from the garden's bloomy pride,
The Cowslip, or of balmy smell
The Violet low had been my cell.
What tho' beside the lonely brook,
My humble flower had drawn no look
Of village swains, or nymphs that pass,
Printing with early feet the grass,
Still had I in the green vale blest
The Cowslip's fragrant lap possest.
Now from the flowery border thrown,
Thro' the wide fields of air unknown,
I go an exile sad to stray,
And quit the bloomy banks of May;
Yet wheeling oft my airy flight
Around this bed of Tulips bright,
Where still fond fancy may retrace
My triumphs in the flowery space.

But thou, O nymph, whose fatal power,
Has cast a virgin from her flower,
Be not with thoughtless joy elate,
Nor shut thy eyes to future fate;
For thou, my honours snatcht away,
Tho' late, with certain price shalt pay.
Fair tho' thou art, that now possess
All charms that loveliest nymph can bless,
The flower of short uncertain date,
Is the just emblem of thy state;
And tho' no hapless chance deface,
With sudden stroke, thy matchless grace,
Yet these hard laws shall seize ev'n thee,
To beauty which the fates decree.
Long by the young and gay desir'd,
Long in each shining scene admir'd;
Yet thou, fair nymph, must pass thy prime,
And reach at length that hated time,
When all thy graces in decay,
So fate ordains, shall fade away;
When from thy cheek the rose must fall,
Nor can thy tears its bloom recall.
Then younger nymphs with half that grace,
Which now adorns that lovely face,
Shall in the courtly circle shine,
And claim each honour lately thine;
While thou, unseen, must pass along
Neglected, in the splendid throng,
Slighted as is the flower that fades,
When autumn pale the year invades.

But now the sun the skies forsakes,
And thee the ruder breeze awakes.
Farewell, yet when, thy slumbers past,
Thy eyes on these bright leaves are cast,
That to thy mind my fate recall,
Nymph, let some drops of pity fall.
And, O! within the grove retir'd,
If by thy radiant eye inspir'd,
Some youth, whose tender muse essays
Her trembling voice in tuneful lays,
Shall of a Tulip-nymph unfold,
The story to thy ear now told;
Then when the Tulips perish all
Of nymphs that triumph in my fall,
Haply my purple flower again
May lift its head above the plain,
And still in song its leaf be seen
The brightest on the summer green.
Sweet to my ear, as thro' the grove,
Borne in the passing breeze I rove,
Sweet to my ear shall be the song,
Sung the gay banks of Thames along.