POETRY OF THE ROSE. 77 



Yet, oh, festal Rose ! 



I have seen thee lying 

 In thy bright repose, 



Pillow'd with the dying ; 

 Thy crimson by the life's quick blood was flying. 



Summer, hope, and love 



O'er that bed of pain, 

 Meet in thee, yet wove 



Too, too frail a chain 

 In its embracing links the lovely to detain. 



Smilest thou, gorgeous flower ? 



Oh ! within the spells 

 Of thy beauty's power 



Something dimly dwells, 

 At variance with a world of sorrows and farewells. 



All the soul forth flowing 



In that rich perfume, 

 All the proud life glowing 



In that radiant bloom, 



Have they no place but here, beneath th' o'ershadowing 

 tomb? 



Crown'st thou but the daughters 



Of our tearful race ? 

 Heaven's own purest waters 



Well might bear the trace 

 Of thy consummate form, melting to softer grace. 



Will that clime enfold thee 



With immortal air ? 

 Shall we not behold thee 



Bright and deathless there, 

 In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendently more fair ? 

 7* 



