 | Forest leaves |  |
236
THE BOQUET.
Addressed to my Brother.
Dear J---, I've rang'd my garden through,
And cropp'd the blooms from various stems
And brought a boquet, in my view,
Rich as a regal diadem.
My flowers are emblematic too,
And since you yet may choose a wife,
They may impart a hint to you,
Of service, all your future life.
And cropp'd the blooms from various stems
And brought a boquet, in my view,
Rich as a regal diadem.
My flowers are emblematic too,
And since you yet may choose a wife,
They may impart a hint to you,
Of service, all your future life.
The Rose is titled queen of flowers,
And in her peerless wealth of bloom,
She beautifies the summer bowers,
And fills them with her rich perfume.
Love's emblem, too, the rose is deem'd,
Sweet, fair, and brief, with thorns beset,
But, brother, all my young heart dream'd
Was like this rose, with dew all wet;
And in her peerless wealth of bloom,
She beautifies the summer bowers,
And fills them with her rich perfume.
Love's emblem, too, the rose is deem'd,
Sweet, fair, and brief, with thorns beset,
But, brother, all my young heart dream'd
Was like this rose, with dew all wet;
Brief dreams of beauty, while they staid
Wet with a trembling spirit's tears;
And one by one, I saw them fade,
And leave their thorns for future years.
Yet while I wept their transient bloom,
I treasur'd every fragment leaf;
And now, amid my hours of gloom
Their lingering balm beguiles my grief.
Wet with a trembling spirit's tears;
And one by one, I saw them fade,
And leave their thorns for future years.
Yet while I wept their transient bloom,
I treasur'd every fragment leaf;
And now, amid my hours of gloom
Their lingering balm beguiles my grief.
Dear brother, may your roses prove
A wreath of never-fading flowers,
But mark me, brother—do not love
The queenly rose of THORNY bowers.
To him who LOVES, no peerless grace,
No balm that genius breathes around,
Atones for pride's cold heartlessness,
Or heals, when thorns of passion wound.
A wreath of never-fading flowers,
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The queenly rose of THORNY bowers.
To him who LOVES, no peerless grace,
No balm that genius breathes around,
Atones for pride's cold heartlessness,
Or heals, when thorns of passion wound.
I've violets here, of every hue,
The native purple, blue, and white,
The splendid parti-colour'd too,
The yellow, with her golden light;—
A gentle family they are,
Modest, and sweet, and well belov'd;
And calm Content delights to share
The violet's bower, from pomp remov'd.
The native purple, blue, and white,
The splendid parti-colour'd too,
The yellow, with her golden light;—
A gentle family they are,
Modest, and sweet, and well belov'd;
And calm Content delights to share
The violet's bower, from pomp remov'd.
Observe this lily, pure as snow,
With drooping head, and earthward eye,
She seems an angel, lost below;
A soul all sensibility.
Such pure and intellectual maid,
A sweet and faithful friend, may prove,
But is not fit with man to wed,
To sympathize with human love.
With drooping head, and earthward eye,
She seems an angel, lost below;
A soul all sensibility.
Such pure and intellectual maid,
A sweet and faithful friend, may prove,
But is not fit with man to wed,
To sympathize with human love.
I've brought the splendid Peony
A thing of regal pomp and pride,
She courts the sun, at noon of day,
With ardent bosom free and wide;
Thou should'st not choose a bride like her,
A masculine and dauntless maid;
Would not a bosom gentler far,
Beat sweeter 'neath a pillow'd head?
A thing of regal pomp and pride,
She courts the sun, at noon of day,
With ardent bosom free and wide;
Thou should'st not choose a bride like her,
A masculine and dauntless maid;
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Beat sweeter 'neath a pillow'd head?
And here's the Fleur de lis, of France,
In purple, blue, and gold, array'd;
Its splendour fills the courtier's glance,
Its fragrance charms the cottage maid;
Just such a flower would wisdom seek,
Fair, thornless, sweet, and humble too;
A royal thing, though still and meek
She bathes her in the forest dew;
In purple, blue, and gold, array'd;
Its splendour fills the courtier's glance,
Its fragrance charms the cottage maid;
Just such a flower would wisdom seek,
Fair, thornless, sweet, and humble too;
A royal thing, though still and meek
She bathes her in the forest dew;
As rich, as joyous, when she grows
Beside the cotter's white-wash'd wall,
As when adorning royal brows
She blooms, the worshipp'd gem of all.
Just such a flower should woman be,
Meet jewel for a diadem;
Yet, in her cheerful piety,
The humblest garden's sweetest gem.
Beside the cotter's white-wash'd wall,
As when adorning royal brows
She blooms, the worshipp'd gem of all.
Just such a flower should woman be,
Meet jewel for a diadem;
Yet, in her cheerful piety,
The humblest garden's sweetest gem.
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