 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
THE DEATH OF THE TWO FLOWERS.
FROM THE FRENCH.
“I pray thee do not blossom yet,
My fairy rose,—my pretty pet!
Let not the wooing light and air
Beguile those tender leaves apart:
But keep thy wealth of incense there,
With Patience at thy blooming heart.
Hold back—my precious! yet awhile,
Thy fragrant breath and glowing smile;
I'd rather close beside thee go,
And catch thy fitful sweetness so;
I'd rather look the leaves between,
That love to veil thy virgin sheen,
Than have them yielded fair and free
To idle eyes, that love not thee:
For well I know the hour that sees
Thy bloom the plaything of the breeze,
Will see thee sigh that bloom away,
And I shall mourn my flower's decay!
Then oh! not now those petals ope,
Keep thou thy smile, and I my hope!”
My fairy rose,—my pretty pet!
Let not the wooing light and air
Beguile those tender leaves apart:
But keep thy wealth of incense there,
With Patience at thy blooming heart.
Hold back—my precious! yet awhile,
Thy fragrant breath and glowing smile;
I'd rather close beside thee go,
And catch thy fitful sweetness so;
I'd rather look the leaves between,
That love to veil thy virgin sheen,
Than have them yielded fair and free
To idle eyes, that love not thee:
165
Thy bloom the plaything of the breeze,
Will see thee sigh that bloom away,
And I shall mourn my flower's decay!
Then oh! not now those petals ope,
Keep thou thy smile, and I my hope!”
Thus sang our playful Rosaline,
Herself a bud of promise rare,
With blooming cheek, and brow serene,
And step and heart as light as air.
At morn she sang!—When evening shed
Her silvery smile o'er Rosa's head:
All lifeless lay the tresses fair,
That floated on that early air.
All pale in Death's cold shadow, now,
The dimpled cheek and smiling brow,
While blushed her rose in full blown pride,
A glowing mockery by her side!
Yes! still its useless life is bore!
The human blossom breathed no more!
Alas! the flower had kept its bloom
To shed it o'er her early tomb.
Ere morning's feet yon mountain pressed,
It died on that unconscious breast!
Herself a bud of promise rare,
With blooming cheek, and brow serene,
And step and heart as light as air.
At morn she sang!—When evening shed
Her silvery smile o'er Rosa's head:
All lifeless lay the tresses fair,
That floated on that early air.
All pale in Death's cold shadow, now,
The dimpled cheek and smiling brow,
While blushed her rose in full blown pride,
A glowing mockery by her side!
Yes! still its useless life is bore!
The human blossom breathed no more!
Alas! the flower had kept its bloom
To shed it o'er her early tomb.
Ere morning's feet yon mountain pressed,
It died on that unconscious breast!
| A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England | |