Oriental Scenes, Dramatic Sketches and Tales/Ballad—My Provence Rose
BALLAD.
My rose! my rose! my Provence rose!
What can to thee compare?
There's not a single flower that blows
So sweet, so soft, so fair—
I've sought the hills of far Almaine
Beside the laughing Rhine,
Rich with the red grape's ruby stain
And wreathed with many a vine.
And stately dames of high degree
Their gracious looks have lent,
And beamed their blue eyes' rays on me
At tilt and tournament.
But oh! my rose! my Provence rose!
What can to thee compare?
There's not a single flower that blows,
So gentle, and so fair.
I've wandered o'er the fields of France
Through summer's smiling hour—
Wooed by the song of young Romance
To beauty's perfumed bower.
And Bretagne's maids have witching arts,
Beguiling mortal men;
And starry eyes, and melting hearts
Are found in bright Guienne.
But my blush rose! my Provence rose!
What can to thee compare?
There's not a single flower that blows,
So delicate, so fair!
There's many a sweet and sunny glance
Beyond the sparkling Rhone,
And rose-lipped maidens lead the dance
Across the sun-kissed Soane,
Oh! joyous are the festivals,
The mirth and minstrelsy,
With beauty smiling in the halls
Of tower-crowned Normandy.
But my sweet rose, my Provence rose!
What can to thee compare?
There's not a single flower that blows,
So graceful, or so fair.
I've listened in the orange groves,
The blossomed dells of Spain—
Beneath her moon-lit skies, to love's
Soft, sweet, bewildering strain.
Through shrouding veils the flashes broke,
From eyes as bright as stars—
Whene'er the sweeping fingers woke
The notes of fond guitars.
But my wild rose, my Provence rose!
What can to thee compare?
There's not a single flower that blows
So precious, or so fair.