The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle With A Sketch of his Life, by Leitch Ritchie |
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THE LEGEND OF THE ROSE. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle |  |
138
THE LEGEND OF THE ROSE.
Lady, one who loves thee well
Sent me here with thee to dwell;
I bring with me thy lover's sigh,
I come with thee to live and die;
To live with thee, beloved, carest—
To die upon that gentle breast!
—Sweeter than the myrtle wreath,
Of Love and Joy my blossoms breathe—
Love—whose name thy breast alarms,
Yet who heightens all thy charms,—
Who lends thy cheek its orient dyes,
Who triumphs in thy bashful eyes—
'Twas from him I borrowed, too,
My sweet perfume, my purple hue;
His fragrant breath my buds exhale;
My bloom—Ah, Lady! list my tale.—
Sent me here with thee to dwell;
I bring with me thy lover's sigh,
I come with thee to live and die;
To live with thee, beloved, carest—
To die upon that gentle breast!
—Sweeter than the myrtle wreath,
Of Love and Joy my blossoms breathe—
Love—whose name thy breast alarms,
Yet who heightens all thy charms,—
Who lends thy cheek its orient dyes,
Who triumphs in thy bashful eyes—
'Twas from him I borrowed, too,
My sweet perfume, my purple hue;
His fragrant breath my buds exhale;
My bloom—Ah, Lady! list my tale.—
I was the summer's fairest pride,
The Nightingale's betrothed Bride;
In Indian bower I sprung to birth
When Love first lighted on the earth,
And then my pure inodorous blossom
Blooming on its thornless tree,
Was snowy as his Mother's bosom
Rising from the emerald sea.
The Nightingale's betrothed Bride;
In Indian bower I sprung to birth
When Love first lighted on the earth,
And then my pure inodorous blossom
Blooming on its thornless tree,
Was snowy as his Mother's bosom
Rising from the emerald sea.
139
Young Love, rambling through the wood,
Found me in my solitude,
Bright with dew and freshly blown,
And trembling to fond Zephyr's sighs;
But, as he stopt to gaze upon
The living gem with longing eyes,
It chanced a Bee was busy there
Searching for its fragrant fare;
When Cupid stooping, too, to sip,
The angry insect stung his lip—
And, gushing from the ambrosial cell,
One bright drop on my bosom fell!
Found me in my solitude,
Bright with dew and freshly blown,
And trembling to fond Zephyr's sighs;
But, as he stopt to gaze upon
The living gem with longing eyes,
It chanced a Bee was busy there
Searching for its fragrant fare;
When Cupid stooping, too, to sip,
The angry insect stung his lip—
And, gushing from the ambrosial cell,
One bright drop on my bosom fell!
Weeping, to his Mother he
Told the tale of treachery;
And she, her vengeful boy to please,
Strung his bow with captive bees;
But placed upon my guiltless stem
The poisoned stings she plucked from them—
And none, since that eventful morn,
Has found the flower without a thorn!
Told the tale of treachery;
And she, her vengeful boy to please,
Strung his bow with captive bees;
But placed upon my guiltless stem
The poisoned stings she plucked from them—
And none, since that eventful morn,
Has found the flower without a thorn!
Yet even the sorrows Love doth send
But more divine enchantment lend:
Still in Beauty's sweetest bowers
Blooms the Rose, the Queen of Flowers,
Brightening with the sanguine stains,
Borrowed from celestial veins,—
And breathing of the kiss she caught
From Love's own lips with rapture fraught!
But more divine enchantment lend:
Still in Beauty's sweetest bowers
Blooms the Rose, the Queen of Flowers,
Brightening with the sanguine stains,
Borrowed from celestial veins,—
And breathing of the kiss she caught
From Love's own lips with rapture fraught!
| The Poetical Works of Thomas Pringle | |