TO MY LOVE.
Reading edition
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BY HENRY H. PAUL.
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Dewy buds of Paphian myrtle
Strew, ye virgins, as I sing;
Chaplets weave from Love’s bright fountain—
O’er my lyre their fragrance fling.
What—what is gay Pieria’s rose,
What is Paphos’ blushing flower,
Whilst Beauty doth my spirit thrall,
Whilst all my pulses feel thy power?
With Cyprian fire thine eye is sparkling,
Like the morning’s tender light;
Through thy silken lashes straying,
Shafts resistless wing their flight:
O! the time I first beheld thee,
Blushing in thy early teens,
Rose nor lily ne’er excelled thee,
Though the garden’s rival queens.