To My Daughter in Italy, at Christmas

Where is, ah where! the citron bloom
That threw its fragrance o'er my room?
Where, white magnolia-cup entwined
With pliant myrtle's ruddy rind?
Julia, with you the flowers are gay,
And cluster round the shortest day.
little at Fiesole ye know
Of holly, less of mistleto;
Such as the Druid priest of yore
To grim god-monsters grimly bore.
Pun: from her pouting infants call
The musk-rose at our chapel- wall;
Pun, bring the violets up, that blow
Along the banks of Africo;
And tell them, every soul, they must
Bend their coy heads and kiss my bust.
Christmas is come: on such a day
Give the best thoughts fair room for play,
And all the Sabbath dance and sing
In honour of your new-born king.