Yet, O festal Rose!
I have seen thee lying
In thy bright repose,
Pillowed with the dying,
Summer, Life, and Love,
O'er that bed of pain,
Met in thee, yet wove
Too, too frail a chain
Smil'st thou, gorgeous flower?
Oh! within the spells
Of thy beauty's power,
Something dimly dwells
All the soul, forth flowing
With that rich perfume,
All the proud life, glowing
In that radiant bloom,
Crown'st thou but the daughters
Of our tearful race?
Heaven's own purest waters
Well might wear the trace
Will that clime enfold thee
With immortal air?
Shall we not behold thee
Bright and deathless there,
Yes, my fancy sees thee
In that light disclose,
And its dream thus frees thee
From the mist of woes,