Long had he tempted her reserve in vain,
Till one luxuriant eve that sunn'd the plain;
On the bent herbage, where a gushing brook,
Blue harebells and the tufted violet shook;
Where hung umbrageous branches overhead,
And the rain'd roses lay in fragments red,
He found the slumbering maid. Prophane he press'd
Her virgin lip, then first by man carest.
She starts, and like a ruddy cloud bestrewn,
At brake of morning, o'er the paly moon;