 | Women must weep |  |
154
THE PLUCKED ROSE.
The rose, it hung on the cottage wall,
And the rose was blushing red;
And it nodded to the breeze's call,
From its dainty emerald bed;
And serenely tall,
It defied the squall
That around it ruin shed,
Upon hearts that broke and bled;
For it hugg'd the shelter of the hall,
By the rich man falsely sped;
Though it saw the flowerets near it fall,
To their veil'd destruction led.
And the rose was blushing red;
And it nodded to the breeze's call,
From its dainty emerald bed;
And serenely tall,
It defied the squall
That around it ruin shed,
Upon hearts that broke and bled;
For it hugg'd the shelter of the hall,
By the rich man falsely sped;
Though it saw the flowerets near it fall,
To their veil'd destruction led.
From the dawn it took its tender dew,
From the eve its virgin blush,
And each day that came gave something new,
With a brighter glow and gush;
For it graces drew
From each breath that blew,
From the tempest's armèd rush,
And the solemn Sabbath hush;
And it laugh'd, as the song-birds by it flew,
To the grasses long and lush;
In its innocence it never knew
That the shield may sometimes crush.
From the eve its virgin blush,
And each day that came gave something new,
With a brighter glow and gush;
For it graces drew
From each breath that blew,
From the tempest's armèd rush,
And the solemn Sabbath hush;
And it laugh'd, as the song-birds by it flew,
To the grasses long and lush;
In its innocence it never knew
That the shield may sometimes crush.
The blossom pined in its pretty nook,
In the ill-protecting shade;
For a blighting blast the petals shook,
Till its glory could but fade;
And the friendly rook,
With the bubbling brook,
And the busy clinking spade,
Now no more its music made;
And the hand that touch'd and tore and took,
Should have held the champion-blade—
Yea, the hand that closed the opening book,
Was the guardian God forbade.
In the ill-protecting shade;
For a blighting blast the petals shook,
Till its glory could but fade;
And the friendly rook,
With the bubbling brook,
And the busy clinking spade,
Now no more its music made;
And the hand that touch'd and tore and took,
Should have held the champion-blade—
Yea, the hand that closed the opening book,
Was the guardian God forbade.
155
The rose is dead by the cottage lone,
With the sorrow black it bare,
And it has no white memorial stone
To tell of the damnèd care;
With its beauty strown,
And the fragrance flown,
In a burden none could share,
If an angel even might dare;
Though the bloom should have gladly freely grown
To perfection rich and rare,
But that Dives (with such wealth his own)
The one treasure would not spare.
With the sorrow black it bare,
And it has no white memorial stone
To tell of the damnèd care;
With its beauty strown,
And the fragrance flown,
In a burden none could share,
If an angel even might dare;
Though the bloom should have gladly freely grown
To perfection rich and rare,
But that Dives (with such wealth his own)
The one treasure would not spare.
| Women must weep | |