We come not, fair one! to thy hand of snow
From the soft scenes by Culture’s hand array’d;
Not rear’d in bowers where gales of fragrance blow,
But in dark glens, and depths of forest shade!
There once, as Venus wander’d, lost in woe,
To seek Adonis through th’ entangled wood,
Piercing her foot, a thorn that lurk’d below
With print relentless drew celestial blood!
Then our light stems, with snowy blossoms fraught,
Bending to earth, each precious drop we caught,