THE ROSE.
IS there a rose which hath no thorn
The ruthless hand, alas! to wound?
Or evil thought that e'er was born
But stamped its nameless terrors soon?
The ruthless hand, alas! to wound?
Or evil thought that e'er was born
But stamped its nameless terrors soon?
And so each sin, in tempting guise
To sorrow swift alone leads on;
Its mild alluring form belies
The sharp and hidden thorns beyond!
To sorrow swift alone leads on;
Its mild alluring form belies
The sharp and hidden thorns beyond!
The rose she is a subtle queen,
Her courtly bower with evil filled;
Though her gay leaves spring fresh and green,
They own, alas! no generous will.
Her courtly bower with evil filled;
Though her gay leaves spring fresh and green,
They own, alas! no generous will.
