"There are plenty of roses," (the patriarch speaks)
"Alas! not for me, on your lips, and your cheeks;
Sweet maiden, rose-laden--enough and to spare,--
Spare, oh spare me the Rose that you wear in your hair."
"O raise not thy hand," cries the maid, "nor suppose
That I ever can part with this beautiful Rose:
The bloom is a gift of the Fays, who declare, it
Will shield me from sorrow as long as I wear it.
"'Entwine it,' said they, 'with your curls in a braid,
It will blossom in winter--it never will fade;
And, when tempted to rove, recollect, ere you hie,
Where you're dying to go--'twill be going to die.'
"And sigh not, old man, such a doleful 'heighho,'
Dost think I possess not the will to say 'No?'
And shake not thy head, I could pitiless be
Should supplicants come more persuasive than thee."
The damsel passed on with a confident smile,
The old man extended his walk for awhile;
His musings were trite, and their burden, forsooth,
The wisdom of age, and the folly of youth.
Noon comes, and noon goes, paler twilight is there,
Rosy day dons the garb of a penitent fair;
The patriarch strolls in the path of the maid,
Where cornfields are ripe, and awaiting the blade.
And Echo was mute to his leisurely tread,--
"How tranquil is nature reposing," he said;
He onward advances, where boughs overshade,
"How lonely," quoth he--and his footsteps he stayed!
He gazes around, not a creature is there,
No sound on the ground, and no voice in the air;
But fading there lies a poor Bloom that he knows,
--Bad luck to the Fairies that gave her the Rose.
1863.
These verses were published in 1863, in "A Welcome," dedicated
to the Princess of Wales.
The town despises modern lays:
The foolish town is frantic
For story-books which tell of days
That time has made romantic:
Those days whose chiefest lore lies chill
And dead in crypt and barrow;
When soldiers were--as Love is still--
Content with bow and arrow.
But why should we the fancy chide?
The world will always hunger
To know how people lived and died
When all the world was younger.
We like to read of knightly parts
In maidenhood's distresses:
Of trysts with sunshine in light hearts,
And moonbeams on dark tresses;
And how, when errant-_knyghte_ or _erl_
Proved well the love he gave her,
She sent him scarf or silken curl,
As earnest of her favour;
And how (the Fair at times were rude!)
Her knight, ere homeward riding,
Would take--and, ay, with gratitude--
His lady's silver chiding.
We love the "rare old days and rich"
That poesy has painted;
We mourn the "good old times" with which
We never were acquainted.
Last night a lady tried to prove
(And not a lady youthful):
"Ah, once it was no crime to love,
Nor folly to be truthful!"
Absurd! Then dames in castles dwelt,
Nor dared to show their noses:
Then passion that could not be spelt,
Was hinted at in posies.
Such shifts make modern Cupid laugh:
For sweethearts, in love's tremor,
Now tell their vows by telegraph--
And go off in the steamer!
The earth is still our Mother Earth--
Young shepherds still fling capers
In flowery groves that ring with mirth--
Where old ones read the papers.
Romance, as tender and as true,
Our Isle has never quitted:
So lads and lasses when they woo
Are hardly to be pitied!
Oh, yes! young love is lovely yet--
With faith and honour plighted:
I love to see a pair so met--
Youth--Beauty--all united.
Such dear ones may they ever wear
The roses Fortune gave them:
Ah, know we such a Blessed Pair?
I think we do! GOD SAVE THEM!
Our lot is cast on pleasant days,
In not unpleasant places--
Young ladies now have pretty ways,
As well as pretty faces;
So never sigh for what has been,
And let us cease complaining
That we have loved when Our Dear Queen
Victoria was reigning!