TO PRIMROSES FILLED WITH MORNING DEW

WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears

Speak grief in you,

Who were but born

Just as the modest morn

Teemed her refreshing dew?

Alas, you have not known that shower
That mars a flower,

Nor felt the unkind

Breath of a blasting wind,
Nor are ye worn with years,
Or warped, as we,

Who think it strange to see

Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
To speak by tears, before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimpering younglings, and make known.
The reason why

Ye droop and weep;

Is it for want of sleep,

Or childish lullaby?

Or that ye have not seen as yet

The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that Sweet-heart, to this?

-No, no, this sorrow shown
By your tears shed,

Would have this lecture read,

That things of greatest, so of meanest worth,

Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth.
Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE

MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,
Was nursed in whirling storms
And cradled in the winds;

The Rhodora

1449

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway, And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,
Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity; in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,

Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear

Serene the ills of life.

Henry Kirke White [1785-1806]

THE RHODORA

ON BEING ASKED WHENCE IS THE FLOWER

IN May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals, fallen in the pool,

Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why

This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,

Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,

Then Beauty is its own excuse for being:

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!

I never thought to ask, I never knew:

But, in my simple ignorance, suppose

The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]

THE ROSE

A ROSE, as fair as ever saw the North,
Grew in a little garden all alone;

A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth,
Nor fairer garden yet was never known:
The maidens danced about it morn and noon,
And learned bards of it their ditties made;
The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon
Watered the root and kissed her pretty shade.
But well-a-day!-the gardener careless grew;
The maids and fairies both were kept away,
And in a drought the caterpillars threw
Themselves upon the bud and every spray.

God shield the stock! If heaven send no supplies,
The fairest blossom of the garden dies.

William Browne [1591-1643]

WILD ROSES

ON long, serene midsummer days
Of ripening fruit and yellow grain,
How sweetly, by dim woodland ways,
In tangled hedge or leafy lane,
Fair wild-rose thickets, you unfold
Those pale pink stars with hearts of gold!

Your sleek patrician sisters dwell

On lawns where gleams the shrub's trim bosk,

In terraced gardens, tended well,

Near pebbled walk and quaint kiosk.

In costliest urns their colors rest;

They beam on beauty's fragrant breast!

But you in lowly calm abide,

Scarce heeded save by breeze or bee;
You know what splendor, pomp and pride
Full oft your brilliant sisters see;

What sorrow too, and bitter fears;
What mad farewells and hopeless tears.

The Rose of May

How some are kept in old, dear books,
That once in bridal wreaths were worn;
How some are kissed, with tender looks,

And later tossed aside with scorn;
How some their taintless petals lay
On icy foreheads, pale as they!

So, while these truths you vaguely guess,
A-bloom in many a lonesome spot,
Shy roadside roses, may you bless
The fate that rules your modest lot,
Like rustic maids that meekly stand
Below the ladies of their land!

1451

Edgar Fawcett [1847-1904]

THE ROSE OF MAY

АH! there's the lily, marble pale,
The bonny broom, the cistus frail;
The rich sweet pea, the iris blue,
The larkspur with its peacock hue;
All these are fair, yet hold I will
That the Rose of May is fairer still.

'Tis grand 'neath palace walls to grow,
To blaze where lords and ladies go;
To hang o'er marble founts, and shine
In modern gardens, trim and fine;
But the Rose of May is only seen

Where the great of other days have been.

The house is mouldering stone by stone,
The garden-walks are overgrown;
The flowers are low, the weeds are high,
The fountain-stream is choked and dry,
The dial-stone with moss is green,
Where'er the Rose of May is seen.

The Rose of May its pride displayed
Along the old stone balustrade;
And ancient ladies, quaintly dight,
In its pink blossoms took delight;
And on the steps would make a stand
To scent its fragrance-fan in hand.

Long have been dead those ladies gay;
Their very heirs have passed away;
And their old portraits, prim and tall,
Are mouldering in the mouldering hall;
The terrace and the balustrade
Lie broken, weedy and decayed.

But blithe and tall the Rose of May
Shoots upward through the ruin gray;
With scented flower, and leaf pale green,
Such rose as it hath never been,

Left, like a noble deed, to grace

The memory of an ancient race.

Mary Howitt [1799-1888]

A ROSE

BLOWN in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon.

What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? Thou'rt wondrous frolic, being to die so soon,

And passing proud a little color makes thee.

If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives,

Know then the thing that swells thee is thy bane;

For the same beauty doth, in bloody leaves,

The sentence of thy early death contain.

Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower,

If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn;

And many Herods lie in wait each hour

To murder thee as soon as thou art born

Nay, force thy bud to blow—their tyrant breath

Anticipating life, to hasten death!

Richard Fanshawe [1608-1666]