 | Fantasy and Passion |  |
169
A THISTLE.
O roseate thistle, blooming by a rock,
With fragrant silkiness in prickly thrall,
How darkly, while I watch you, does it fall
That o'er me such disconsolate fancies flock?
I see calamitous battles, feel the shock
Of treachery and intrigue, revolt and brawl;
I see (oh, saddest picture of them all!)
Pale Mary cowering by the ghastly block!
With fragrant silkiness in prickly thrall,
How darkly, while I watch you, does it fall
That o'er me such disconsolate fancies flock?
I see calamitous battles, feel the shock
Of treachery and intrigue, revolt and brawl;
I see (oh, saddest picture of them all!)
Pale Mary cowering by the ghastly block!
Ah, wherefore think such bitter thoughts as these,
While sweet auroral freshness charms and cheers?
Why mar the morning's brilliance and its breeze
With weary memories of those crimeful years?
Why tell this poor flower in what blood and tears
They have bathed its Scottish kindred overseas!
While sweet auroral freshness charms and cheers?
Why mar the morning's brilliance and its breeze
With weary memories of those crimeful years?
Why tell this poor flower in what blood and tears
They have bathed its Scottish kindred overseas!
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