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(1789)
IN the close covert of a grove, | |
| By nature formed for scenes of love, | |
| Said Susan in a lucky hour, | |
| Observe yon sweet geranium flower; | |
| How straight upon its stalk it stands, | 5 |
| And tempts our violating hands: | |
| Whilst the soft bud as yet unspread, | |
| Hangs down its pale declining head: | |
| Yet, soon as it is ripe to blow, | |
| The stems shall rise, the head shall glow. | 10 |
| Nature, said I, my lovely Sue, | |
| To all her followers lends a clue; | |
| Her simple laws themselves explain, | |
| As links of one continued chain; | |
| For her the mysteries of creation, | 15 |
| Are but the works of generation: | |
| Yon blushing, strong, triumphant flower, | |
| Is in the crisis of its power: | |
| But short, alas! its vigorous reign, | |
| He sheds his seed, and drops again; | 20 |
| The bud that hangs in pale decay, | |
| Feels not, as yet, the plastic ray; | |
| To-morrow’s sun shall bid him rise, | |
| Then, too, he sheds his seed and dies: | |
| But words, my love, are vain and weak, | 25 |
| For proof, let bright example speak; | |
| Then straight before the wondering maid, | |
| The tree of life I gently laid; | |
| Observe, sweet Sue, his drooping head, | |
| How pale, how languid, and how dead! | 30 |
| Yet, let the sun of thy bright eyes, | |
| Shine but a moment, it shall rise; | |
| Let but the dew of thy soft hand | |
| Refresh the stem, it straight shall stand: | |
| Already, see, it swells, it grows, | 35 |
| Its head is redder than the rose! | |
| Its shrivelled fruit, of dusky hue, | |
| Now glows, a present fit for Sue: | |
| The balm of life each artery fills, | |
| And in o’erflowing drops distils. | 40 |
| “Oh me!” cried Susan, when is this? | |
| What strange tumultuous throbs of bliss? | |
| Sure, never mortal, till this hour, | |
| Felt such emotion at a flower: | |
| Oh, serpent! cunning to deceive, | 45 |
| Sure, ’tis this tree that tempted Eve; | |
| The crimson apples hang so fair, | |
| Alas! what woman could forbear? | |
| Well hast thou guessed, my love, I cried, | |
| It is the tree by which she died; | 50 |
| The tree which could alone content her, | |
| All nature, Susan, seeks the centre; | |
| Yet, let us still, poor Eve forgive, | |
| It’s the tree by which we live; | |
| For lovely woman still it grows, | 55 |
| And in the centre only blows. | |
| But chief for thee, it spreads its charms, | |
| For paradise is in thy arms.— | |
| I ceased, for nature kindly here | |
| Began to whisper in her ear: | 60 |
| And lovely Sue lay softly panting, | |
| While the geranium tree was planting. | |
| Till in the heat of am’rous strife, | |
| She burst the mellow tree of life. | |
| “Oh, heaven!” cried Susan, with a sigh, | 65 |
| “The hour we taste,—we surely die; | |
| Strange raptures seize my fainting frame, | |
| And all my body glows with flame; | |
| Yet let me snatch one parting kiss | |
| To tell my love I die with bliss: | 70 |
| That pleased, thy Susan yields her breath; | |
| Oh! who would live if this be death!” | |
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