 | Poems |  |
158
SONG VI.
[My Mary plucked a full-blown rose]
I
My Mary plucked a full-blown rose,And placed it on her peerless breast;
The sweet flower bowed its crimson head,
And fondly pressed its snowy nest;
The emerald leaves were gently stirred,
Just as her rising bosom shook,
Like the white plumage of a dove,
That coos beside some breezy brook.
159
II
Oh! had I been that fragrant rose,Which on her gentle bosom blushed,
Or revelled 'mid those heaving sighs,
Whose breathing music none hath hushed,—
Lived in the beating of her heart,
And caught her eye in tranquil rest;
Or slept where lay that happy rose,—
Then had I been for ever blest.
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