Sonnet.
The Camellia.
As Venus wander’d ’midst the Idalian bower, 1
And mark’d the loves and graces round her play ; 2
She pluck’d a musk-rose from its dew-bent spray, 3
“ And this,” she cried, “ shall be my favourite flower ; 4
For o’er its crimson leaflets I will shower
5
Dissolving sweets to steal the soul away ; 6
That Dian’s self shall own their sovereign sway, 7
And feel the influence of my mightier power.”8
Then spoke fair Cynthia, as severe she smiled,— 9
“ Be others by thy amorous arts beguiled, 10
Ne’er shall thy dangerous gifts these brows adorn : 11
To me more dear than all their rich perfume
12
The chaste camellia’s pure and spotless bloom, 13
That boasts no fragrance, and conceals no thorn.”—14