Poems (Cook)/Love's Roses

by Eliza Cook

LOVE'S ROSES.

It chanced that late on a summer eve,
 Young Love went scampering through the dew;
When Old Time met him, and cried, "By your leave,
 Master Cupid, I'll have a few words with you:

"The flowers you own are of great renown,
 And you place them in every mortal breast;
But most of them fade before my frown,
 As fast as the sun-rays from the west.

"I have only to walk around the stalk,
 And scatter a handful of bitter seeds;
When lo! where the young rose used to be,
 There dwelleth a crop of lasting weeds.

"But here and there (not oft, I allow)
 I meet with a curious blossom of yours,
That lifteth its head 'neath my heaviest tread,
 And is sweeter, methinks, for the crush it endures.

"Many a vigorous effort I've made
 To mow down that blossom so fairly blown;
But it turns the edge of my well-tried blade,
 Though whetted anew on an old gravestone.

"I have hidden the worm in the innermost germ,
 I have sprinkled the leaves with mildew blight;
But the magical bloom defieth my strength,
 And flourishes on in perfume and light.

"Come, tell me, boy, how this may be,
 That I, who can crumble the pyramid tower,
And wither the sap of a mountain tree,
 Am baffled in strength by a tiny flower!"

"Oh, oh!" cried Love, "why, I sadly fear
 That you, like me, are among the blind;
Or you'd surely have seen, in your long career,
 That the roses I plant are of various kind.

"You must know I've a hotbed here below,
 Where most of the glittering scions spring;
They burst and they blow with a dazzling show,
 But I cannot say much for the scent they fling.

"The gold-dust of Fortune I've always found
 Will engender the bud and deepen the hue;
And the warm breath of Passion, exhaling around,
 Will quicken the growth, as nought else can do.

"They are forward and shining things, forsooth,
 And look well as I lavish them carelessly forth;
They are vividly fair, but I know they won't bear
 Many sweeps of your scythe, or a gust from the north.

"They serve for the million creatures of clay,
 And, in truth, are the only flowers that suit
The manifold hearts that crowd in my way,
 That have no depth for a firmer root.

"But hearken, old fellow; I'd soon resign
 A godship based on such hollow fame,
If I held no privilege more divine,
 To cast a glory about my name.

"There is a fount in the realms above,
 With a bubbling stream that hath no end;
Where the red rose dips its fadeless lips
 In the waters where Life and Affection blend.

"As the gates of that realm are open to me,
 Why I oftentimes choose to wander there;
And I never return, but I bring two or three
 Of the flowers whose tint is beyond compare.

"I do not pluck many, because I have learnt.
 'Tis in very few bosoms those flowers can thrive;
The soil must be the same as the spot whence they came
 Where such exquisite blossoms will deign to live.

"By chance, I discover a spirit of worth,
 As strong as the eagle, though soft as the dove,
That spurns my ephemeral roses of earth,
 And will not be bribed by a butterfly love.

"So, deep in that heart I ingraft the stem
 That blunts your cormorant scythe, old friend;
And try as you will, 'twill conquer you still,
 For it never is known to break or bend.

'Tis a flower that nothing below can destroy;
 'Tis unwither'd by Poverty, Age, or Pain;
So take for once the advice of a boy,
 And never go wasting your labour again."

Time turn'd away on his iron-shod heel,
 Muttering, after a short "Good night"—
"I think such a heart must be parcel and part
 Of a very great fool," and Time was right.