128 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS 



THE TIME OF THE ROSES 



MORNING is blushing ; the gay nightingales 

 Warble their exquisite songs in the vales ; 

 Spring, like a spirit, floats everywhere, 

 Shaking sweet spice-showers loose from her hair, 

 Murmurs half-musical sounds from the stream, 

 Breathes in the valley, and shines in the beam. 

 In, in at the portal that youth uncloses ! 

 It hastes, it wastes, the time of the roses. 



Meadows and gardens and sun-lighted glades, 

 Palaces, terraces, grottoes, and shades 

 Woo thee ; a fairy bird sings in thine ear : 

 Come and be happy ! An Eden is here. 

 Knowest thou whether for thee there be any 

 Years in the future ? Ah, think on how many 

 A young heart under the mould reposes, 

 Nor feels how wheels the time of the roses ! 



In the red light of the many-leaved rose 

 Mahomet's wonderful mantle reglows ; 

 Gaudier far, but as blooming and tender, 

 Tulips and martagons revel in splendour. 

 Drink from the chalice of joy, ye who may ! 

 Youth is a flower of early decay, 

 And pleasure a monarch that age deposes, 

 When past, at last, the time of the roses. 



See the young lilies, their scimitar-petals 

 Glancing, like silver mid earthier metals : 

 Dews of the brightest, in life-giving showers, 

 Fall all the night on these luminous flowers : 



