How oft, as memory hallowed all his charms,
She longed to clasp the sleeper in her arms!
How oft she laid admiring every grace,
“Such was Adonis! such his lovely face!”
But, fearing lest this fond excess of joy
Might break the slumber of the beauteous boy,
On every rose-bud that around him blowed,
A thousand nectared kisses she bestowed;
And straight each opening bud, which late was white,
Blushed a warm crimson to the astonished sight.