90 POETRY OF THE ROSE. 



TO THE ROSE. 



Rose of my heart ! I've raised for thee a bower — 



For thee have bent the phant osier round, 



For thee have carpeted with earth the ground, 

 And trained a canopy to shield thy flower, 

 So that the wannest sun can have no power 



To dry the dew from off thy leaf, and pale 



Thy living carmine, but a woven veil 

 Of full-ffreen vines shall cruard from heat and shower. 

 Rose of my heart ! here, in tliis dim alcove. 



No worm shall nestle, and no wandering bee 



Shall suck thy sweets — no blights shall wither thee ; 

 But thou shalt show the freshest hue of love. 

 Like the red stream that from Adonis flow'd, 



And made the snow carnation, thou shalt blush, 

 And fays shall wander from their bright abode 



To flit enchanted round thy loaded bush. 

 Bowed with thy fragrant burden, thou shalt bend 



Thy slender twigs and thorny branches low ; 

 Vermillion and the purest foam shall blend ; 



These shall be pale, and those in youth's first glow 

 Their tints shall form one sweetest harmony. 



And on some leaves the damask shall prevail, 

 Whose colors melt like the soft symphony 



Of flutes and voices in the distant dale. 

 The bosom of that flower shall be as white 



As hearts that love, and love alone, are pure ; 

 Its tip shall blush as beautiful and bright 

 As are the gayest streaks of dawning light, 



Or rubies set within a brimming ewer. 

 Rose of my heart ! there shalt thou ever bloom. 



Safe in the shelter of my perfect love ; 



And, when they lay thee in the dark, cold tomb, 



I'll find thee out a better bower above. 



Percival. 



