The lay of an Irish harp :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh! return me the rose which I gather'd for thee
When thy love like the rose was in bloom,
For neglected it withers, though given by me,
And shares with thy love the same doom.

II

Yet so lately renew'd was thy passion's frail vow
On that rose, which so lately was given,

That the rose's twin-buds which were wreath'd for my brow
Are still gem'd with the fresh dews of heaven.

III

For the twin-buds thy fondness so tastefully wove
Were ne'er kiss'd by the sun's faintest ray,
While the rose, which receiv'd the warm vow of thy love,
Lies expos'd to the varying day.

IV

So faded, so tintless, it lives but to languish,
All its blushes, its freshness, decay'd,
And droops (hapless flow'r!) as tho' love's tender anguish
On its blushes and freshness had prey'd.

V

Then return me the rose which I gather'd for thee,
When thy love like the rose was in bloom,
Since neglected it withers, though given by me,
And shares with thy love the same doom.

VI

Thou return'st me the rose; yet with sighs 'tis return'd,
And the drops which its pale bosom wears,
Were they shed from thine eye? is my rose then so mourn'd,
Or but dew'd with the eve's falling tears?

VII

Yet speak not! that look is enough! Keep the flow'r,
Since in death 'tis still precious to thee;

Since the odour that's deathless recalls the sweet hour
When the rose was presented by me.

VIII

And wilt thou, when breathing the scent of its sighs,
E'er say, with a love-ling'ring thrill,
“Thus passion deep-felt in the bosom ne'er dies,
And if faded, is odorous still?”

IX

Oh thou wilt! and the rose which thus wither'd with thee,
From thy cares may recover its bloom,
And that love which thine eye again pledges to me
Will still share with the rose the same doom.

“------Whenever I have heard
A kindred melody, the scene recurs,
And with it all its pleasures and its pains.”
Cowper.

And the effect produced by the recurrence of a sweet strain, or a delicious odour, heard and inhaled under the influence of circumstances dear to the heart or interesting to the fancy, may be deemed twin sensations: for my own part (and perhaps I am drawing con-clusions from an individual rather than a general feeling) I have never listened to the air of Erin go brach, or breathed the perfume of the rose geranium, without a thrill of emotion which was sweet, though mournful, to the soul, and which drew its birth from a feeling memory, had inseparably connected with the melody of the one and the perfume of the other. It is indeed but just and natural that the safest and purest of all the senses should claim the closest kindred with the memory and the soul. “L'oreille est le chemin du cœur,” said Voltaire. And the rose had never witnessed its frequent apothesis, had its bloom been its only or its sweetest boast.

My memory at this moment supplies me with innumerable poems addressed to the Rose. Among the most bcautiful are, I think, one by Anacreon, so elegantly translated by Moore; one by Sappho, one by Ausonius, one by Francisco de Biojo (Parnasso Espagnol), one by Camoens, one by Bernard le Jeune, one by Cowper, two by Metastasio, one from the Persian, and one by a German poet (whose name has escaped recollection) beginning,

“Der Fruhling mird nunbald entmeichen.”