Poems (Howard)/The Land of Roses

by Hattie Howard

The Land of Roses.

Afar from these changeable, chilly,
 Hyperborean regions of ours,
Lies a land that is melting in sunshine,
 And sweet with the odor of flowers.

A land where the broad Mississippi
 Pours out her great heart to the sea—
Whose fair Crescent City gives promise
 Of grandeur and glory to be.

'T is the goal of the Paradise-seeker,
 Resplendent in vernal attire;
The aim of the tourist's ambition,
 The invalid's longing desire.

There roses are everywhere blooming
 On trellis, veranda, and wall—
Mareschal Neil, or the rare "Gold of Ophir,"
 The fairest, and favorite of all.

A pink flush suffusing its petals,
 The yellow of gold at its heart,
Make this the perfection of roses—
 Beyond imitation of art.

Sweet roses run rife in the market,
 Embellish the hot-house and lawn,
And tempt the admirer to purchase
 Till roses have faded and gone.

My lady displays at her bodice
 A marvelous fragrant bouquet,
And weaves for her forehead a chaplet
 Of roses, in tasteful array.

The lover selects for his mistress
 Jacqueminot, or the creamy Lamarque
In scarce-opened buds, emblematic
 Of true love's incipient spark.

'Mid roses in lavish profusion,
 Inhaling the scent-laden air
The sojourner lingers, believing
 Perennial spring-time is there.

'T is the home of "The Great Exposition"—
 Oh! who that has money and time
Can banish desire for basking
 Awhile in that tropical clime?