Dedication of an Ancient Idyl to Rose


Friend of my age! to thee belong
The plaintive and the playful song,
And every charm unites in thee
Of wisdom, wit, and modesty;
Taught hast thou been from early youth
To tread the unswerving path of truth,
And guided to trip lightly o'er
The amaranth fields of ancient lore,
Turn thou not hastily aside
From her who stems the Asian tide,
For shores henceforth to bear her name . .
Thine, thine shall be a better fame;
Lands yet more distant shall it reach
Than yonder Hellespontic beach,
Or where the bravest blood now flows
Before perfidious Delhi, Rose!
From boyhood have I loved old times
And loitered under warmer climes.
I never dream such dreams as there . .
Voices how sweet, and forms how fair!
The Nymphs and Graces there I find,
The Muses too, and thee behind,
All chiding thee, all asking why
Thou whom they cherish art so shy;
They will not listen when I say,
Thou hast some dearer ones than they.
" Ungrateful!" cry they, " can it be?
We have no dearer one than she."
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