POETEY OF THE ROSE. 115 



THE DYING ROSE-BUD'S LAMENT. 



Ah me ! ah ! wo is me ! 



That I should perish now, 

 With the dear sunhght just let in 



Upon my balmy brow ! 



My leaves, instinct with glowing life. 

 Were quivering to unclose ! 



My happy heart with love was rife ! 

 I was almost a Rose ! 



Nerved by a hope, warm, rich, intense, 



Already I had risen 

 Above my cage's curving fence. 



My green and graceful prison ! 



My pouting lips, by Zephyr press'd, 

 Were just prepared to part. 



And whisper to the wooing wind 

 The rapture of my heart ! 



In new-born fancies reveling, 



My mossy cell half riven, 

 Each thrilling leaflet seemed a wing 



To bear me into heaven. 



How oft, while yet an infant flower, 

 My crimson cheek I've laid 



Against the green bars of my bower, 

 Impatient of the shade ! 



And pressing up and peeping through 

 Its small but precious vistas, 



Sighed for the lovely light and dew 

 That blessed my elder sisters ! 



