To the Rose


Tender rose-bud! sweetly blooming, —
Drooping with the dews of morn,
Every sighing breeze perfuming,
As it flutters round thy thorn; —

Tender rose-bud! soon thy blossom,
Nursed by dews, and fed by light,
Will unfold its velvet bosom,
Spreading beauty to the sight.

Then, sweet bud, I 'll softly pluck thee,
Drooping low with early dew;
Then to Mary will I give thee,
She whose cheek is thine own hue.

When the dew-drops; sweetly shining,
Gently to my lips are prest,
In the woodbine bower reclining,
I will lay thee on her breast.

Could I, like thee, flower of feeling,
Rest upon her bosom fair,
Like the bee its sweetness stealing,
I would dwell for ever there.


Fairest Nymph of lovely Flora,
Brightest beauty of the Spring,
See, around thy kindling glory,
How the zephyr sports his wing.

When Aurora gayly flashes,
Rising from her saffron bed,
O, what richly crimson blushes
Wanton round thy drooping head!

When the morning-glory closes
In the sultry noontide air,
O, how soft the bee reposes,
Humming on thy bosom fair!

When the zephyrs, gently blowing,
All the sweets of nature bring,
Round thy virgin beauties glowing,
See, the hummer spreads his wing.

When the breezy breath of morning
Calls him to his airy flight,
How his hues, thy bloom adorning,
Glitter in the dawning light!

When the evening shades are blending
In the gay enamelled west,
See, the dews of night, descending,
Softly slumber on thy breast.

Blooming Nature's sweetest blossom!
Let me pluck, in morning's hour,
To adorn Maria's bosom,
Thy enchanting, dewy flower.


See, the rose is freshly glowing
Through its veil of morning dew;
Round it perfumed gales are blowing,
Sweeter ne'er in Eden blew.

May has clad the tangled bower
In a robe of softest green,
Blended every early flower, —
But the rose is Flora's queen.

Showers of bloomy snow, descending
From the pear-tree, deck the mead;
Honeysuckles richly blending
Weave their many-tinctured brede.

When the first spring cloud is flying.
What the flower that freshest glows?
Sweet when blooming, sweet when dying,
O, the fair Idalian rose!

See the sylph on emerald pinions
Lightly woo the floweret's smile,
Ranging Flora's bright dominions,
Sip at each and stay awhile:

When the rose's breathing blossom
By his ruby throat is prest,
Lights he on its yielding bosom,
Furls his wings and sinks to rest.

Though, the exotic bower adorning,
India's richest blossom glows,
Give me, wet with dews of morning,
Give, O, give the breathing rose!
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