Eaton Stannard Barrett

Fanny

Say, Fanny, why has equal heaven,
In every bounty good and wise,
Perfection to your features given?
Enchantment to your witching eyes?

Was it that mortal man might view,
These charms at distance, and adore?
Ah, no! the man who would not woo,
Were less than mortal, or were more.

The mossy rose, by humming bee,
And painted butterfly carest,
We leave not fading on the tree,
But snatch it to the happy breast.

There unsurpassed in sweets it dwells—
Unless the bosom be your own;
There blooming, every bloom excels—
Except your tender blush alone.

O Fanny, life is on the wing,
And years, like rivers, glide away;
Tomorrow may misfortune bring,
Then, lovely girl, enjoy today.

Nor thus, before the kiss I sip,
Start bashful from these ardent arms;
As if afraid my printing lip,
Might rob your printed lip of charms.

For feet impair not, tho' they tread,
The blooming primrose.—Fanny smiled.
Come then, the meadow flowers, she said,
Come, press the primrose blooming wild.