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!