Poems (Howard)/The Land of Roses
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?