 | The poems, odes, songs, and other metrical effusions, of Samuel Woodworth |  |
49
THE ROSE-BUD.
On the banks of Connecticut's proud winding stream,
I pensively wander'd, a stranger, unknown;
As the hill-tops around caught the sun's parting beam,
And eve's sable vest o'er the valleys was thrown.
I pensively wander'd, a stranger, unknown;
As the hill-tops around caught the sun's parting beam,
And eve's sable vest o'er the valleys was thrown.
A blushing young Rose-bud attracted mine eye,
Half opened, its bosom perfumed the soft air,
As it bow'd in response to the zephyr's sweet sigh,
And a new-fallen dew-drop was glittering there.
Half opened, its bosom perfumed the soft air,
As it bow'd in response to the zephyr's sweet sigh,
And a new-fallen dew-drop was glittering there.
As I tasted its fragrance, I spoke to the flower,
“O flourish, sweet bud! in my bosom,” I cried;
“Thy beauties will solace life's turbulent hour,
“Grief loses its gall, when to sweetness allied.”
“O flourish, sweet bud! in my bosom,” I cried;
“Thy beauties will solace life's turbulent hour,
“Grief loses its gall, when to sweetness allied.”
I said, and had pluck'd it, to bloom in my breast,
That breast stung by anguish and torn by despair!
But my hand was restrain'd, and my bosom address'd—
My heart caught the whisper—“O pilgrim, forbear!”
That breast stung by anguish and torn by despair!
But my hand was restrain'd, and my bosom address'd—
My heart caught the whisper—“O pilgrim, forbear!”
“Taste, taste of its sweetness, but mar not the flower,
“O stranger! a wanderer still thou must roam;—
“Once torn from its stalk, it will bloom but an hour;
“Then leave it, O pilgrim! 'twill flourish at home.
“O stranger! a wanderer still thou must roam;—
“Once torn from its stalk, it will bloom but an hour;
“Then leave it, O pilgrim! 'twill flourish at home.
50
“But, ah! if transplanted, a bosom of wo
“Will chill the fair bud, in a far-distant clime,
“A soil deep envelop'd in winter's cold snow,
“Will cause the young stranger to droop in its prime.”
“Will chill the fair bud, in a far-distant clime,
“A soil deep envelop'd in winter's cold snow,
“Will cause the young stranger to droop in its prime.”
I obey'd—but my eye dropp'd a tear on the rose—
That rose, lovely girl! is an emblem of you;
But driven from joys, I submit to my woes,
And think of your name as I bid them adieu!
That rose, lovely girl! is an emblem of you;
But driven from joys, I submit to my woes,
And think of your name as I bid them adieu!
| The poems, odes, songs, and other metrical effusions, of Samuel Woodworth | |