WHEN the fair ROSE amidst her flowery train,
With virgin blushes greets the dewy morn;
Say, will th’ enamour’d NIGHTINGALE remain
A lonely warbler on the desert thorn?
When the dark sullen GENIES* of the night,
Behold the MOON slow rising o’er the wave,
Those wayward spirits curse the beauteous light,
And hide with ENVY in her gloomy cave.
Yet shall the traveller with enraptured eye,
As late he treads his solitary way,
O’erlook each radiant gem that decks the sky,
Alone rejoicing in her brighter ray.
The sweetest rose that blushful hails the morn;
The moon’s mild lustre rising o’er the main:
The fairest maids GERGESTAN’s* blooms adorn;
Or all CIRCASSIA’s lovely virgin train:
These, these, O SELIMA! unnotic’d shine,
Lost in the blaze of thy superior charms;
And whilst I may aspire to call thee mine,
No saint more happy in a HOURI’s* arms.
O Angel of delight! of thee possest,
Not Paradise should bribe me from my love;
Ev’n the fond hope that animates my breast,
Speaks the pure raptures of the blest above.