In the white garb of Virtue let it rise,
And wave in verse before the Virgin’s eyes:
On tuneful feet let languid ivy crawl,
And in poetic measure scale the wall,
While the sharp sheers return a clipping sound,
And the green leaves fall quiv’ring to the ground.
Here in the bow’r of beauty newly shorn,
Let Fancy sit, and sing how Love was born;
Wrapt up in roses, Zephyr found the child,
In Flora’s cheek when first the goddess smil’d;