Budris And His Sons. From The Russian.

Loveliest of flowers That in the garden grows, Brightest, sweetest, fairest, Crimson blushing rose. Envy of all others, No charm thy beauty misses, Favourite of Phœbus, Blushing at his kisses. Yet as he outshineth, Glorying in his might, The pale, uncertain spendour Of Luna’s silver light So does Amarilla, When compared unto thee, Heedless wanton, careless Of the thousand lips that woo thee. Thou has cruel thorns Beneath thy rich leaves lying, But she is soft and gentle As Æolian music sighing; Thou heedest not the murmur Of Zephyr when he sings, But see her dark eyes flashing When I touch my golden strings. In the month of flowers, When flaunting in thy pride, Crimson‐robéd Queen, I shall place thee side by side; Then, Cupid, come and tell me, On thy judgment I’ll repose, Which is fairest, brightest, Amarilla or the Rose? Stay! here is Venus coming, The goddess will decide Ah! tis not the Paphian Queen, But Amarilla, my young Bride!