Classic Poem

High o'er yon wall, a Rose Tree spreads
Its thousand vernal blossoms wide,
Which wave their sweet vermilion heads,
By Clutha's gently streaming tide;
And happy maiden-hearts reside,
By that gay nature-favoured tree, —
Whose beaming eyes do often glide
O'er its soft charms, with ecstacy.

Unconscious flower! would I were thee!
To meet the favour of those eyes,
Which shine with such divinity,
Like mellowed starlight in the skies!
Would I were thee! — my bosom sighs —
With aspirations such as thine,
That live although thy beauty dies,
Revealing thou wert once divine.

How like an artless Maid art thou.
While blushing in her modest prime;
Ere Care has scored her snowy brow,
Or she has felt the chill of Time, —
Or this vain, fleeting World's crime
Has made her bosom sad and lone:
To me thou art a thing sublime,
Which fancy fondly dwells upon.

Bloom on, sweet odoriferous flower!
One summer's all that thou canst boast,
For though now loveliest in the bower,
Whene'er yon glorious sun has crossed,
The Autumnal line; — thy beauty's lost, —
Thou shalt assume a blighted look,
And fade before the piercing frost, —
That seals each little crystal brook.