Alas for the White Rose! its hour is gone by
Its soil is unfriendly, inclement its sky;
The day of its pride and its beauty is o’er,
The White Rose in England will blossom no more.
Alas for its victims! the green fields are spread,
The green fields of England, with dying and dead;
But deeper the wail where these prison-walls stand,
Where the captives are gathered with gyves on each hand.
The day-break is bright, as with joy over-spread,
The face of the east wears a glorious red;
The dew’s on the hawthorn, the early wild flowers
Smile out a sweet welcome to morning’s glad hours.
But dark looms the gibbet on high in the air,
While the shudd'ring gaze turns from the sight that is there:
Dishonoured—degraded—a mock for the crowd,
Can this be the doom of the young and the proud!
’Tis over—the traitors are left on the tree!
One sits ’neath their shadow, her head on her knee;
A cloak o’er the face of the mourner is spread,
They raise it to look—and they look on the dead.
Young Richard of Chorley, she followed thee on
But thy life was her own, and with thine it is gone;
Both true to their faith, both so fair and so young,
Woe, woe, for the fate which on this world is flung!
Now for their sake, when summer’s sweet children unclose,
Give a moment's sad thought to the fatal White Rose.
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