The Poetry of the Rose. 33 



The self-same winged circlet 



Which wreathed in smiles I now behold 



May be I fear already in death's grasp 



The sudden spoil of the burning flame. 



For thy bosom's clustering petals, 



Love from his wings soft plumes has granted, 



And for thy forehead from his own locks gold, 



O faithful image his work of wonder, 

 Bathe thyself in his colour blood divine 

 Of the deity given forth by the foam. 

 And this, O crimson flower, is this not able 

 To check the on-rush of the darting ray? 

 In one hour's space it despoils thee 

 Its wanton burning it robs thee 

 Of thy colour, of thy breath of life, 

 Scarcely canst thou stretch out thy petals 

 Ere they to the earth in fear return. 

 Thy life indeed to thy death is near, 

 What wonder then if with her tears 

 Thy birth and thy death bewails 

 The sorrowing morn. 



Jtos Rosarum, p. 55. 



No less a name than that of Camoens, the author of The Lusiad, furnishes us with 

 Portuguese poem on the Rose, which is thus translated by Lord Strangford : 



Just like love is yonder Rose, 

 Heavenly fragrance round it throws, 

 Yet tears its dewy leaves disclose, 

 And in the midst of briars it blows, 

 Just like Love. 



Cull'd to bloom upon the breast, 

 Since rough thorns tne stem invest, 

 They must be gathered with the rest, 

 And with it to the heart be prest, 

 Just like Love. 



And when rude hands the twin buds sever, 

 They die and they shall blossom never, 

 Yet the thorns be sharpe as ever, 

 Just like Love. 



Memoirs of the Rose, p. 77. 



Turning to Italy we find in Tasso 



" Ah, see," thus she sang, " the Rose spread to the morning 



Her red virgin leaves, the coy pride of all plants ! 



Yet half open, half shut, midst the moss she was born in, 



The less shows her beauty the more she enchants ; 



Lo, soon after, her sweet naked bosom more cheaply 



She shows ! Lo, soon after, she sickens and fades, 



Nor seems the same flower late desired so deeply 



By thousands of lovers and thousands of maids. 



" So fleets with the day's passing footsteps of fleetness 

 The flower and the verdure of life's smiling scene ; 

 Nor, though April returns with its sunshine and sweetness, 

 Again will it ever look blooming or green. 



E 



