The rose--the rose of matchless grace!
That best resembles woman's race;
It smiles, it weeps, it blushes too,
And loses soon its lovely hue.
With dewdrops glist'ning on its leaves,
One fancies that it pouts and grieves;
And if in moss 'tis veiled with care
It looks a blonde, with golden hair,
All conscious, 'tis supremely fair!
Or when in white it seeks to hide
With modest blush, it looks a bride!
When damask robes its form enfold,
'Tis then a queen with crown of gold!
And if it amber vestments hath,
'Tis like an angel in our path! Whatever dress it may put on,
It seems most fair to look upon.
With eager joy 'tis fondly prest
Against the warm and loving breast;
Torn by rude hands, 'twill droop, and pine;
In peaceful bowers, most gaily twine;
Breathes sweet perfume, and gently throws
Attractive beauty where it blows;
It, graceful, bends to meet the storm;
Smiles, while its heart conceals the worm;
And when on couch of thorns 'tis tost,
Then it may be admired the most,
Raising its beauteous head on high
Above the sharpest destiny;
And giving dignity a grace,
To the most bleak and barren place;
And when its pride, and bloom are past,
It still has charms to hold us fast;
Its withered relics then display
The gift death could not take away--
The vital charm its virtue shed--
Its breath in life! Its soul when dead!
And when at last it fades and dies,
Its deathless spirit's what we prize!