How can we speak the glad surprise
Which met us on that morning ride--
The glory of the boundless skies,
The mountains in their stately pride!
And greater yet the misty deep,
Which, huge and vast, swept out afar
In dreaming beauty, silent sleep,
Which storm, it seemed, could never mar.
But better than the boughs which hung
With golden fruit and blossoms sweet,
And better than the flowers which clung,
Were words which there our hearts did greet.
They said, "Come see my roses red;"
They came from frank, sweet face, and eyes
Which gleamed with happy mirth, and said,
"Come here for further yet surprise."
We climbed the mount, we grasped the hand,
We looked upon the gracious face;
We saw the wealth of "Samarcand,"
The Place, and Lady of the Place.
Fit setting for so warm a heart
Seemed orange grove and mountain side;
Of nature's best she seemed a part,
Yea, more; of all, its greatest pride.
Too soon the time to part drew near,
The farewell words at last were said;
But memory ever will hold dear
Her Home, Herself, her Roses red.