 | The forest minstrel |  |
TO A BROKEN TULIP.
It is not for thee that I weep,
Thou beautiful perishing flower,
Though I've watched thy bright bud, since I first saw it peep,
The loveliest gem in my bower.
It is not for thee that I mourn,
Though spoilers have broken thy stem,
And crushed on the earth the rich robes thou hast worn,
And trampled thy bright diadem.
Thou beautiful perishing flower,
Though I've watched thy bright bud, since I first saw it peep,
The loveliest gem in my bower.
It is not for thee that I mourn,
Though spoilers have broken thy stem,
And crushed on the earth the rich robes thou hast worn,
And trampled thy bright diadem.
But thou, my poor perishing flower,
With treasures of dying perfume,
Hast gathered around, with a magical power,
The memories that dwell in the tomb.
Their voices are sweet to mine ear,
Though sad as the dove's dying moan,
Their hands and their eyes are surpassingly dear,
And bright lips that whisper “My own.”
With treasures of dying perfume,
Hast gathered around, with a magical power,
The memories that dwell in the tomb.
Their voices are sweet to mine ear,
Though sad as the dove's dying moan,
Their hands and their eyes are surpassingly dear,
And bright lips that whisper “My own.”
I seek with a thrill of delight
To clasp the dear shades to my heart,
Then with eyes dim and closed, cheeks and lips cold and white,
In coffins and shrouds, they depart.
I clasp my hands then, and I weep—
As I wept when we parted at first,—
When the dear ones went down to the long lonely sleep,
And anthems pealed forth—Dust to dust!
To clasp the dear shades to my heart,
Then with eyes dim and closed, cheeks and lips cold and white,
In coffins and shrouds, they depart.
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As I wept when we parted at first,—
When the dear ones went down to the long lonely sleep,
And anthems pealed forth—Dust to dust!
Alas! for his pitiless powers,
Whose palace of state is the tomb;
Who breaks down the dearest, and loveliest flowers,
And gathers them into the gloom.
'Tis piteous to see the young head
Bow down, when life's stamen is broke;
'Tis mournful to breathe the sweet incense they shed,
As meekly they yield to the stroke.
Whose palace of state is the tomb;
Who breaks down the dearest, and loveliest flowers,
And gathers them into the gloom.
'Tis piteous to see the young head
Bow down, when life's stamen is broke;
'Tis mournful to breathe the sweet incense they shed,
As meekly they yield to the stroke.
But lo! a bright Conqueror stands
Amid the rapt seraphs above;
And sweet buds and blossoms, in beautiful bands,
Rejoice in the light of his love.
He hath rifled the palace of death,—
He hath borne the pale flowers from the gloom;
They live in his presence, a beautiful wreath,
Immortal in fragrance and bloom.
Amid the rapt seraphs above;
And sweet buds and blossoms, in beautiful bands,
Rejoice in the light of his love.
He hath rifled the palace of death,—
He hath borne the pale flowers from the gloom;
They live in his presence, a beautiful wreath,
Immortal in fragrance and bloom.
| The forest minstrel | |