The Poetry of the Rose. 43 



The Rose is red, the Rose is white, 

 The Rose it blooms in summer light, 

 But ah ! it clouds the heart's delight 



To muse upon its history. 

 It tells full many a woeful tale, 

 Of hearts made cold, of cheeks made pale, 

 Of love's sad sigh, the widow's wail, 



In days of strife and chivalry, 

 Sweet Freedom, may the age prevail, 



That strife no more may be. 



The Rose is red, the Rose is white, 

 The Rose is pleasant to the sight, 

 Now both its hues in one unite, 

 To crown the brows of loyalty ! 

 Strife took the white Rose for its crest, 

 But concord placed it in her vest, 

 Where deep it blushed upon her breast, 



To wed the tree of liberty ; 

 And while it blooms as Freedom's guest, 



There let it ever be. 



Clare. 



SONG OF THE ROSE. 



If Zeus chose us a king of the flowers in his mirth, 



He would call to the Rose and would royally crown it. 



For the Rose, ho the Rose ! is the grace of the earth, 



Is the light of the plants that are growing upon it. 



For the Rose, ho, the Rose ! is the eye of the flowers, 



Is the blush of the meadows that feel themselves fair, 



Is the lightning of beauty that strikes through the bowers, 



On pale lovers who sit in the glow unaware. 



Ho, the Rose breathes of love ! ho, the Rose lifts the cup 



To the red lips of Cypris invoked for a guest ! 



Ho, the Rose, having curled its sweet leaves for the world, 



Takes delight in the motion its petals keep up, 



As they laugh to the wind as it laughs from the west ! 



Attributed to Sappho from Achilles Tatius. 

 Translated by E. B. Browning. 



She pluck'd a wildwood Rose and fondly strove, 

 With pausing step and ever anxious care, 

 To carry home her dainty treasure-trove, 

 A butterfly perch'd on those petals fair ; 

 Soon the gay creature flutter'd off again, 

 And then her girlish fingers dropped the flower. 

 Ah ! little maid, when love asserts his power, 

 This lesson duly learnt may save thee pain ; 

 Why from the forest Rose thine hand unclasp, 

 Because, the fickle insect would not stay ? 

 Not all the tendance of thy sweet blue eye 

 And tiptoe heed secured the butterfly ; 

 The flower that needed but thy tender grasp 

 To hold it, thou hast lightly thrown away ! 



Charles Tennyson Turner. 



