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ON A FLOWER GATHERED IN POPE'S GARDEN, AT HIS
CELEBRATED VILLA AT TWICKENHAM.
FORGIVE me, ah! forgive me, beauteous flower, That thus I bear thee from thy sacred home, A home where every Muse has wove her bower, And Genius loved beneath their shade to roam. Nor rude nor sacrilegious deem that hand, Which raptured takes thee from thy 'sociates round, Though trembling, blushing, all the blooming band In gentle whispers say, "'Tis hallow'd ground." "'Tis this, the charm," exclaim'd I undismay'd, "That led my footsteps to this sacred scene; "At eve that bids me seek this classic shade, "And fondly wander where your Pope has been. "Yet ah! farewel! farewel each muse and bower, "Grotto and river, take my latest sigh; "Like some blest relic will I keep this flower, "And on this bosom only shall it die."