 | English Roses |  |
A STUDY IN GRAY.
O, she once might have been sainted
In her innocence, as fresh
As if God himself had painted
Rose and lily on her flesh;
As if His own hand had fingered
The sweet outlines of that form,
And in tender love that lingered
Married snow and dew and storm.
She was rich in England's beauty
By our island freedom shed,
With the deathless light of Duty
Once was robed and ramparted.
In her innocence, as fresh
As if God himself had painted
Rose and lily on her flesh;
As if His own hand had fingered
The sweet outlines of that form,
And in tender love that lingered
Married snow and dew and storm.
She was rich in England's beauty
By our island freedom shed,
With the deathless light of Duty
Once was robed and ramparted.
But her name, alas! is Sadness
Now beneath the cruel wrong,
And the thought of her seems madness
That we dare not harbour long.
And the peace that like a story
Dwelt in brightness on her brow,
Has departed with its glory,
Like the breaking of a vow.
And the happiness that caroled
Round her pathway and led on,
And the awe she was appareled
In alike are gray and gone.
Now beneath the cruel wrong,
559
That we dare not harbour long.
And the peace that like a story
Dwelt in brightness on her brow,
Has departed with its glory,
Like the breaking of a vow.
And the happiness that caroled
Round her pathway and led on,
And the awe she was appareled
In alike are gray and gone.
| English Roses | |