O come, dearest Emma! the rose is full blown,
And the riches of Flora are lavishly strown,
The air is all softness, and crystal the streams,
And the West is resplendently clothèd in beams.
We will hasten, my fair, to the opening glades,
The quaintly carved seats, and the freshening shades,
Where the faeries are chanting their evening hymns,
And in the last sunbeam the sylph lightly swims.
And when thou art weary I’ll find thee a bed
Of mosses and flowers to pillow thy head;
There, beauteous Emma, I’ll sit at thy feet,
While my story of love I enraptured repeat.
So fondly I’ll breathe, and so softly I’ll sigh,
Thou wilt think that some amorous Zephyr is nigh-
Ah, no! - as I breathe, I will press thy fair knee,
And then thou wilt know that the sigh comes from me.
Then why, lovely girl, should we lose all these blisses?
That mortal’s fool who such happiness misses.
So smile acquiescence, and give me thy hand,
With love-looking eyes, and with voice sweetly bland.
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