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LYRICAL POEMS.
55
THE ROSE.
THE rose it sweetly bloometh,
But whose then shall it be?
Ah! long long time I watch’d it,
Alas! unhappy me!
As long as undevelop’d,
And in the bud it grows,
There’s no one looks upon it,
Nor marks the coming rose.
O carefully I watch’d it,
Like pearls that precious be;
O then it was a promise
Of future bliss to me!
But soon as from the green leaves
An issue forth it found,
It was the admiration
Of all the lads around!
