 | Poems |  |
161
XV.
FROM THE ITALIAN.
In a fair garden grew a purple rose,Shedding abroad an odor fresh and rare;
A nymph beholding, with sweet transport glows,
And at the winsome sight exclaims “How fair!”
Her gentle hand to pluck it she extends,
But envious thorns are hid beneath its leaves:
As o'er it with a trustful joy she bends,
A sudden wound her ardent grasp deceives.
“Alas!” she murmurs, “now the truth I feel,
That beauty ever is allied to pain,
Life's richest music discords will reveal,
And every blessing hath its kindred bane.”
“Yes,” I replied, “thyself doth prove it true;
For thou art lovely and yet cruel too.”
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