English poem
SONG. (Ye myrtle wreaths, from fragrant bow'rs)
by Anonymous
Ye myrtle wreaths, from fragrant bow'rs, The nymph's fair brows adorn; More lovely than the dancing hours, Or sweetest breath of morn. Compar'd with Sylvia, charming maid, No flow'r, such beauty knows; Op'ning blossoms, envious fade, And dies, the trembling rose.
Fair snow drops bend their lily heads, And woodbines sweet decay; Blue violets quit their lowly beds, With pinks no longer gay. Each fanning breeze and murm'ring fount, Her praise in echos bring; Ask them who warble as they mount: 'Tis Sylvia's charms they sing.
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