242 THE lover’s offering, 
But, though I seldom flowers refuse, 
Of any tint, I’d rather choose, 
The white, white rose. 
’Twas not the rose of ruby hue 
I chose, dear girl, for you, for you, 
Where Avon flows; 
No—emblem, rather of the brow, 
Than cheek, ’twas mine to crop, as now, 
The white, white rose. 
And has it not been yours to smoothe 
For me life’s rugged road, and soothe 
Its cares and woes ? 
And was it not I won your love, 
Dear girl, where bloomed, our path above, 
The white, white rose i 
Then can I other floweret e’er 
Than that more prize, however fair 
And bright it glows ? 
Or can I e’er forget the hour 
When first I culled, in sunny bower, 
The white, white rose ? 
Love, like a rock, should firmly stand, 
And hang its shelter o’er thee ; V 
While only zephyrs soft and bland, % 
Dispense their sweets before thee. ^3 
