 | Poems by William Stanley Roscoe |  |
119
TO A FAVORITE MYRTLE,
RAISED FROM A BRANCH WORN BY A LADY AT A BALL.
Green be thy leaves in the dews of the morning,
And fair be thy blossoms, thou pride of the grove,
And bright be the sunbeam thy beauties adorning,
For thou hast been nurs'd on the breast of my love.
And fair be thy blossoms, thou pride of the grove,
And bright be the sunbeam thy beauties adorning,
For thou hast been nurs'd on the breast of my love.
The flowers of the forest are pale and decaying,
And wan are their sisters that dwell in the vale,
But thou art all joyous, new honors displaying,
And rich is the fragrance thou pour'st on the gale.
And wan are their sisters that dwell in the vale,
But thou art all joyous, new honors displaying,
And rich is the fragrance thou pour'st on the gale.
Nor tempests nor storms in their ravage shall blight thee,
And the season of summer for ever is thine,
And my love with the beams of her eyes shall delight thee,
And tempt thee to bloom in their radiance divine.
And the season of summer for ever is thine,
And my love with the beams of her eyes shall delight thee,
And tempt thee to bloom in their radiance divine.
120
For the gales of the south, and the zephyrs of heaven,
Her breath thro' thy green woven branches shall stray,
And the sigh of her bosom to thee shall be given,
An offering more rich than the incense of May.
Her breath thro' thy green woven branches shall stray,
And the sigh of her bosom to thee shall be given,
An offering more rich than the incense of May.
| Poems by William Stanley Roscoe | |