By the gaily circling glass/The Bed of Roses

THE BED OF ROSES.

My father’s flocks adorn’d the plain,
⁠Retirement’s joys possessing;
He flourish’d in the sun’s mild reign,
⁠His home and children blessing.
When round us rag’d destructive war,
⁠And fire and slaughter spread afar,
⁠Defeated, sham'd,
⁠Our sire exclaim’d,
⁠‘My sons, high heaven disposes;—
⁠On thorns we tread,
⁠Yet those we dread,
⁠Ne’er sleep on a Bed of Roses.’

We wander’d long on mountains wild,
⁠As hardy hunters living;
In humble hut, at grandeur smil’d,
⁠Our father’s hopes reviving.
When battle once more rag’d below,
He fought, till captur’d by the foe;
⁠Chain’d by harsh law,
⁠On bed of straw,
⁠‘Still, heaven’ he cried, ‘disposes!
⁠My sons, behold,
⁠In honour bold,
⁠I die on a Bed of Roses.’

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