Poems.
51
Maiden mine, Maiden mine, O, say to me,What flower would'st choose, could'st thou a flower be—A Rose? "Ah no—though beauteous in its bloomWhile from its blushing heart steals sweet perfume;Yet when I'd pluck, my finger's flesh is torn!Ah, cruel rose—I cannot love its thorn!"
Maiden mine, Maiden mine, Oh, say to me,What flower would'st choose, could'st thou a flower be—A Lily? "No—for stately, pale and proud,It lifts its haughty head above the crowdAs if it said "my pride and purityCrown me the fairest of all lowers that be."
Maiden mine, Maiden mine, Oh, say to me,What flower would'st choose, could'st thou a flower be—A violet, then? O now, thou sayest true,It has no thorns or pride, but modest, true,By a fond lover given, is fragrant pressedWith treasured thoughts, upon a maiden's breast!"
Ah, maiden mine, hadst thou asked me,In flower life what flower I'd beWhich one to name, I'd scarce have known;But now thy words a flower crownW hose happy fate o'ershines the rest!I'd be that flower one blissful hour,Then gladly die on Beauty's breast!
