Now I've painted these flowers, say what can I do,
To render them worthy acceptance from you?
I know of no sybil, whose wonderful art
Could to them superior virtues impart,
Who, of magical influence wonders could tell,
And, who over each blossom could mutter a spell.

You only the humbler enchantments can prove,
That arise from esteem, from respect, and from love;
With such I assail you, and pow'rful the charm,
When applied to a heart sympathetic and warm;
To a heart such as that, which, if right I divine,
O C—ll—n—n! dwells in that bosom of thine.