To the tender and pensive I make my Appeal.
If ever ye felt, believe I also feel.
Who rifles my blossoms, who strips my young leaves,
May the maiden he swears to, be sure he decieves!
But ye who in grove or in chamber run over
The songs of all lands that have burst from the lover,
And have learnt and have often repeated my name,
From Cyprus to distant Ierne the same,
Do spare me! There is (you may know her) a flower
Who blooms and who blushes for only an hour;
She may not be backward a breast to adorn,
Perhaps warm as hers, and perhaps cold as Morn;
There place her: I fancy she will not resist,
Nor will one (for her parents have many) be mist.
But, if you hope aught from our Goddess, leave me
To rest on the sands and to look on the sea.