Buds of roses, virgin flowers,

Culled from Cupid's balmy bowers,

In the bowl of Bacchus steep,

Till with crimson drops they weep.

Twine the rose, the garland twine,

Every leaf distilling wine;

Drink and smile, and learn to think

That we were born to smile and drink.

Rose, thou art the sweetest flower

That ever drank the amber shower;

Rose, thou art the fondest child

Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild.

Even the Gods, who walk the sky,

Are amorous of thy scented sigh.

Cupid, too, in Paphian shades,

His hair with rosy fillets braids,

When with the blushing sister Graces,

The wanton winding dance he traces.

Then bring me, showers of roses bring,

And shed them o'er me while I sing.

Or while, great Bacchus, round thy shrine,

Wreathing my brow with rose and vine,

I lead some bright nymph through the dance,

Commingling soul with every glance!

[1] This spirited poem is a eulogy on the rose; and again, in the fifty- fifth ode, we shall find our author rich in the praises of that flower. In a fragment of Sappho, in the romance of Achilles Tatius, to which Barnes refers us, the rose is fancifully styled "the eye of flowers;" and the same poetess, in another fragment, calls the favors of the Muse "the roses of the Pleria."