THE ROSE.
89
THE ROSE.
O thou Rose , thou lovely Rose!
Why thus early bloom 'st thou bright?
Why doth frost thy young bloom smite?
Why frost-stricken fad’st in sight?
Why, when faded, fallst thou light?
Long time I sate at even late
Till cock-crowing alone,
Nor longer could I aught await;
The pine-torch all was gone.
I slept, I dream’d, it to me seem’d,
Ah me! unhappy maid!
The gold ring from my finger fell,
That my right hand displayed.
Out slipp’d the costly stone of price,
That in the ring should be;
The precious stone I never found,
No lover came to me!
