To Eva Valentine

Queen of the months ! thy starry bloom
Floods with glad hues our Cornish combe ;
Thy birds are loud with heaven's own mirth —
Hast thou no song for Eva's birth ?

No tempest woke, no winds were wild,
To greet thy dawn, my gentle child ;
But first in summer's loveliest bowers
Thy voice was heard amid the flowers.

So was thy name, the garden bride,
Thrilled at its sound with joy and pride :
Her Eden held one fatal tree :
Be earth all paradise to thee !

Ah ! Eva ! she, our mother, stood
At once in noon-day womanhood ;
In her full eyes there could not shine
The simple witchery of thine.

Yet, 'mid the conscious trees, began
The war that won her vassal, man :
He saw his freedom in the skies,
And lost it for his lady's eyes.

So thou, when woman's love shall warm
The pulses of thy thrilling form,
Unfold, for one dear thrall to rest,
The paradise of Eva's breast.