 | The Prospect, and Other Poems |  |
107
ON BEING PRESENTED WITH A ROSE BY A YOUNG LADY.
1824.
This Rose thou hast given to me,
Alas! thou hast pluck'd it too soon;
'Tis an emblem, lady, of thee,
And why not allow it to bloom?
Alas! thou hast pluck'd it too soon;
'Tis an emblem, lady, of thee,
And why not allow it to bloom?
In beauty what fairer can be,
In colours I know not of any;
Except 'tis the blush that I see,
Gracing the face of my Fanny.
In colours I know not of any;
Except 'tis the blush that I see,
Gracing the face of my Fanny.
Yet in this sweetest of roses,
In vain for one smile do I trace,
Equal to that which reposes
On thy sweet heavenly face.
In vain for one smile do I trace,
Equal to that which reposes
On thy sweet heavenly face.
108
'Tis in vain I look all around,
The rose I must leave for the sky;
There's nothing on earth to be found,
The stars only equal thine eye.
The rose I must leave for the sky;
There's nothing on earth to be found,
The stars only equal thine eye.
The leaves that press round it and twine,
Resemble those tresses of hair;
That flow with a grace so divine,
And play o'er that bosom so fair.
Resemble those tresses of hair;
That flow with a grace so divine,
And play o'er that bosom so fair.
Those lips so sweet, dewy and red!
Were my lot to be a queen bee,
I'd leave the sweet violet bed,
And sip all my honey from thee.
Were my lot to be a queen bee,
I'd leave the sweet violet bed,
And sip all my honey from thee.
Fair lady, this rose only view,
Which lately in bloom did repose;
Alas! I'm afraid 'tis too true,
Thine is the fate of the rose.
Which lately in bloom did repose;
Alas! I'm afraid 'tis too true,
Thine is the fate of the rose.
109
See its leaves they wither and die,
Its fragrance, too, is all fled;
Let it in thy bosom but lie,
Again it may lift up its head.
Its fragrance, too, is all fled;
Let it in thy bosom but lie,
Again it may lift up its head.
Yes, like the fair rose thou must fade,
Ere many rude winters go by;
Like it thou must leave the cool shade,
To bloom in a garden on high:
Ere many rude winters go by;
Like it thou must leave the cool shade,
To bloom in a garden on high:
Where 'tis one long summer for ever,
And the cold winds blow not, or roar;
Where the cruel hand can ne'er sever,
Or part on that far distant shore.
And the cold winds blow not, or roar;
Where the cruel hand can ne'er sever,
Or part on that far distant shore.
Yes, kind Heaven will pluck thee, 'tis true,
To adorn the mansion of love;
Thou wilt breathe the celestial dew,
'Tis food for the angels above.
To adorn the mansion of love;
Thou wilt breathe the celestial dew,
'Tis food for the angels above.
110
How blissful the hope that is given
To virtue and goodness like thine,
To bloom in the garden of heaven—
May thy fate for ever be mine!
To virtue and goodness like thine,
To bloom in the garden of heaven—
May thy fate for ever be mine!
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