 | Metrical essays |  |
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THE ROSE.
“Go, lovely rose!
Tell her that wastes her time, and me,
That now she knows
When I resemble her to thee
How sweet and fair she seems to be!”
Waller.
Tell her that wastes her time, and me,
That now she knows
When I resemble her to thee
How sweet and fair she seems to be!”
Waller.
The rose, the rose, is the poet's flower;
Grace of the garden, pride of the bower;
Its buds like the loveliest lips are bright,
'Tis born in beauty, 'tis nurs'd in light;
And a holy spell is around it flung,
A charm more sacred than minstrel has sung—
A nameless sweetness like melody's tone
In bosoms young Love has made all his own.
In the gay saloons, in the splendid halls,
Where the dance is led, where enchantment calls,
Beautiful rose, thy fragrance is there—
On the snowy breast, on the raven hair,
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Where bosoms are throbbing with warm delight;
'Mid sparkling tresses, 'mid diamond wreaths,
Thy songs are flowing, thy witchery breathes,
While myriad lamps from each silver tower
Light beauty and love to thy gala hour.
The rose, the rose, on thy Syrian breath,
Is wafted a strain—'tis the lay of death;
Is floating a sigh, which the wild fates weave,
Which may break the heart, but cannot relieve;
On the ruin'd breast, on the marble brow,
With the dead thou art in the house of woe;
With the dead thou art—fit symbol to be
Of beauty's swift fate—her mortality!—
The rose, the rose, gems our bridal hours,
It's spirit is over love's moonlight bowers;
In the day of hope, in despair's broad gloom,
In the festive hall, in the cheerless tomb!
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