Poems; original and translated :: :: University of Virginia Library

Another year a ninth rose brings,
And I must speak more pretty things.
The Muses were in number nine,
Preceptresses of song divine:
Nine roses may perchance inspire
My lips with some poetic fire.
A rose am I, and therefore wear
A rosy garland round my hair:
But these which on my brow you see
Are blossoms not akin to me;
For I am from a distant place,
A rosebud of another race:
I on a lovely summer's morn
Mid vales of Hertfordshire was born,

Where roses less the winter fear
Than those which shed their sweetness here.
To that dear home my memory clings
With many fond imaginings,
How there within the garden bower
I bloom'd a little infant flower.
Yet wheresoe'er I may be found
Transplanted from my native ground,
Contented with my lot I'll be,
And wear a smile of gaiety;
At least when friends are in my view
So gracious and so kind as you.