"There are plenty of roses," (the patriarch speaks) "Alas! not for me, on your lips, and your cheeks; Sweet maiden, rose-laden--enough and to spare,-- Spare, oh spare me the Rose that you wear in your hair." "O raise not thy hand," cries the maid, "nor suppose That I ever can part with this beautiful Rose: The bloom is a gift of the Fays, who declare, it Will shield me from sorrow as long as I wear it. "'Entwine it,' said they, 'with your curls in a braid, It will blossom in winter--it never will fade; And, when tempted to rove, recollect, ere you hie, Where you're dying to go--'twill be going to die.' "And sigh not, old man, such a doleful 'heighho,' Dost think I possess not the will to say 'No?' And shake not thy head, I could pitiless be Should supplicants come more persuasive than thee." The damsel passed on with a confident smile, The old man extended his walk for awhile; His musings were trite, and their burden, forsooth, The wisdom of age, and the folly of youth. Noon comes, and noon goes, paler twilight is there, Rosy day dons the garb of a penitent fair; The patriarch strolls in the path of the maid, Where cornfields are ripe, and awaiting the blade. And Echo was mute to his leisurely tread,-- "How tranquil is nature reposing," he said; He onward advances, where boughs overshade, "How lonely," quoth he--and his footsteps he stayed! He gazes around, not a creature is there, No sound on the ground, and no voice in the air; But fading there lies a poor Bloom that he knows, --Bad luck to the Fairies that gave her the Rose. 1863. These verses were published in 1863, in "A Welcome," dedicated to the Princess of Wales. The town despises modern lays: The foolish town is frantic For story-books which tell of days That time has made romantic: Those days whose chiefest lore lies chill And dead in crypt and barrow; When soldiers were--as Love is still-- Content with bow and arrow. But why should we the fancy chide? The world will always hunger To know how people lived and died When all the world was younger. We like to read of knightly parts In maidenhood's distresses: Of trysts with sunshine in light hearts, And moonbeams on dark tresses; And how, when errant-_knyghte_ or _erl_ Proved well the love he gave her, She sent him scarf or silken curl, As earnest of her favour; And how (the Fair at times were rude!) Her knight, ere homeward riding, Would take--and, ay, with gratitude-- His lady's silver chiding.