"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.