Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS; AN ANACREONIC, by THOMAS MOORE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS; AN ANACREONIC, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Hither, flora, queen of flowers!
Last Line: I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste!
Alternate Author Name(s): Little, Thomas
Subject(s): Government


HITHER, Flora, Queen of Flowers!
Haste thee from Old Brompton's bowers --
Or (if sweeter that abode)
From the King's well-odour'd Road,
Where each little nursery bud
Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud!
Hither come, and gaily twine
Brightest herbs and flowers of thine
Into wreaths for those who rule us,
Those who rule and (some say) fool us --
Flora, sure, will love to please
England's Household Deities!

First you must then, willy-nilly,
Fetch me many an Orange lily --
Orange of the darkest dye
Irish G -- ff -- rd can supply!
Choose me out the longest sprig,
And stick it in old Eld -- n's wig

Find me next a Poppy posy,
Type of his harangues so dozy,
Garland gaudy, dull and cool
For the head of L -- v -- rp -- l!
'Twill console his brilliant brows
For that loss of laurel boughs,
Which they suffer'd (what a pity)
On the road to Paris city.

Next, our C -- stl -- r -- gh to crown,
Bring me, from the county Down,
Wither'd Shamrocks, which have been
Gilded o'er, to hide the green
(Such as H -- df -- t brought away
From Pall-Mall last Patrick's Day) --
Stitch the garland through and through
With shabby threads of every hue --
And as, Goddess! -- entre nous --
His Lordship loves (though best of men)
A little torture, now and then,
Crimp the leaves, thou first of Syrens!
Crimp them with thy curling-irons.

That's enough -- away, away --
Had I leisure, I could say
How the oldest rose that grows
Must be pluck'd to deck Old R -- c --
How the Doctor's brow should smile
Crown'd with wreaths of Camomile;
But time presses -- to thy taste
I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste!





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