Classic Poem

THE COUNT

I know a Flower of beauty rare,
And long with sweetest anguish
To go and cull this Flower so fair;
But here in thrall I languish.
All day I murmur, " Woe is me! "
For, while as yet my steps were free
This lovely flower was in my power.
From these blank walls I gaze in vain
To find my cherished Flower;
The dell is lost, and dim the plain,
So lofty is this tower!
But, be he knave, or be he knight,
Who brings me here my heart's delight,
I'll call him nearest friend and dearest.

THE ROSE

Behold! a Flower divinely bright
Below thy trellis bloweth;
Thou surely meanest me, Sir Knight,
The Rose that richly gloweth:
A princely mind is thine, I ween,
The flower of flowers, the garden-queen,
Methinks must blossom on thy bosom.

THE COUNT

O Rose! we prize thy damask dyes
Through leafy darkness peering:
As precious thou in maiden's eyes
As pearl, or gold, or ear-ring.
Thou deckest well her braided hair;
Yet art not thou the wonder fair
Whereon I ponder, ever fonder.

THE LILY

The flaunting Rose is proud of port,
And proud are they who seek her,
But modest minds will fainer court
A coyer flower and meeker.
The soft in soul, the pure in heart,
Methinks will chuse the better part,
And love with stilly love the Lily!

THE COUNT

I hold myself unstained and chaste,
And free from darker failings;
Yet here, a captive wretch, I waste
My heart in bitter wailings!
Meet emblem of the Undefiled
Art thou, a spotless flower and mild,
But mine is rarer, dearer, fairer.

THE PINK

That rarer, fairer flower am I,
I bud and bloom so gayly
Here in mine arbor, tended by
The heedful warden daily;
With clustering petals breathing out
Voluptuous perfume round about,
And thousand glowing colors shewing.

THE COUNT

The brilliant Pink let no man slight, —
The gardener's minion-floweret,
Now must it bask in garish light,
Now shadow must embower it;
But such will never heal my woe;
Mine is a meek-eyed flower, and, though
Serene and tender, hath no splendor.

THE VIOLET

Uneyed and hidden here I bloom,
Wrapped in communings lonely;
Yet will I now, Sir Knight, presume
To speak, though this time only.
If I, the Violet, be thy flower,
It grieves me that I want the power
To lightly clamber tow'rds thy chamber.

THE COUNT

I love the vestal Violet,
Her odor and her color,
But even for her can ne'er forget
My lonely doom of dolor.
Hear, friends, my mournful riddle right:
In vain all round this rocky height
I cast mine eye for what I sigh for.

But far beneath, by streams and groves,
Her bosom overladen
With sorrow for my thraldom, roves
Earth's truest-hearted maiden.
And when she weeps my dreary lot,
And plucks the blue Forget-Me-Not,
It wakes Affection's recollections.

For love like her's hath mystic might,
Which breathes through sundering distance;
And feeds, even in my dungeon's night
My lamp of pale existence.
And, when my heart would break, this thought
Steals over it, Forget-Me-Not!
And I inherit Strength and Spirit.