 | Poems |  |
212
THE BLIGHTED ROSE.
Shall there descend no silvery shower
Thy sweetness to restore?
Alas! poor withered, altered flower,
Thou'lt bloom and smile no more!
Thy sweetness to restore?
Alas! poor withered, altered flower,
Thou'lt bloom and smile no more!
O! shall there fall no gentle dew
To bathe that drooping head?
I spake! but the chilly north-wind blew,
And the flower lay pale and dead!
To bathe that drooping head?
I spake! but the chilly north-wind blew,
And the flower lay pale and dead!
O! it never blushed nor bloomed again,
Though the nightingale sang its softest song;
O! the nightingale's song and my care was vain—
It shone no more amongst the rosy throng!
Though the nightingale sang its softest song;
O! the nightingale's song and my care was vain—
It shone no more amongst the rosy throng!
213
But the night-bird found another flower,
And I a thousand full as bright!
Thus perishes, in one winged hour,
A thing of loveliness and light!
And I a thousand full as bright!
Thus perishes, in one winged hour,
A thing of loveliness and light!
Yes! thus the things earth, smiling, yields,
Pass!—pass! forgotten, though so fair!
But we inherit heaven's pure fields,
Transplanted—welcomed—cherished there!
Pass!—pass! forgotten, though so fair!
But we inherit heaven's pure fields,
Transplanted—welcomed—cherished there!
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