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BALLAD.
My rose! my rose! my Provence rose!
What can to thee compare?
There's not a single flower that blows
So sweet, so soft, so fair—
I've sought the hills of far Almaine
Beside the laughing Rhine,
Rich with the red grape's ruby stain
And wreathed with many a vine.
And stately dames of high degree
Their gracious looks have lent,
And beamed their blue eyes' rays on me
At tilt and tournament.
But oh! my rose! my Provence rose!
What can to thee compare?
There's not a single flower that blows,
So gentle, and so fair.
I've wandered o'er the fields of France
Through summer's smiling hour—
