The Enchanted Rose

"O where dost thou trip it," the patriarch said,
"A Rose in thy bosom so daintily laid?
A pilgrim, whose shadow extends to the tomb,
Would gaze on its beauty, would breathe its perfume!"

"O raise not thy hand," cried the maid, "nor suppose
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.

And sigh not, old man, such a doleful 'heigh-ho,'
Dost think I possess not the will to say, 'No'?
And shake not thy head, I could pitiless be
Should supplicants come even younger than thee."

The damsel pass'd on with a confident smile,
The old man extended his walk for a while,
His musings were trite, and their burthen, 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 the patriarch's tread,--
"How tranquil is Nature!" that patriarch said;
He onward advances, where boughs overshade
A lonelier spot, and the barley is laid.

He gazes around, not a creature is there,
No sound upon earth, and no voice in the air;
But fading there lies a poor bloom that he knows,
Neglected, unheeded--a beautiful Rose.