I send thee, Mary, a sweet young rose, That bright with the hues of the sunset glows; Its beauty, alas! is frail and brief, It will come to thee with a withered leaf, But the fervent kiss that my earnest lips Have left for thee on its crimson tips, Will not from the fading flower depart, But come all fresh to thy lip and heart; For oh, ’tis a breath of the love and trust That will live when our lips and our hearts are dust. Mary, dear Mary, pray love this flower, Let it have for thy heart a spell of power; For I plucked it fresh from its lovely stalk, On the blooming edge of that garden walk, Where we strayed together so deeply blest, When the sun was low in the golden west, And murmured our loves in burning words, With none to hear but the flowers and birds, And lingered long on the dear, sweet spot, While our warm hearts kissed, though our lips did not. Mary, dear Mary, my thoughts still cleave To each memory sweet of that blessed eve, To each tone more dear than the sweetest lute, To each vow we breathed when our lips were mute, To the wild, deep thrill through each trembling frame, From fingers warmed with a pulse of flame, To each gentle tear, to each gentle sob, To each sigh that told of the heart’s deep throb, Aye, these memories dwell in this soul of mine— Oh, Mary dear, do they live in thine? Mary, dear Mary, I pray thee say, Do the roses bloom where thy steps now stray? Do they look at morn on the sky’s soft blue Through the trembling tears of the early dew? When I come to thee will they smile to greet Thy lover’s steps with their perfume sweet? Will they list at eve to our tender vows? Will they weave their wreaths for our gentle brows? And when at last we are doomed to part, Will they breathe a sigh for each breaking heart? Mary, dear Mary, I fain would know, Do thy heart’s sweet flowers keep their fresh young glow? Are their eyes yet turned on the skies above? Do they glitter still with the dews of love? Has no blighting frost, has no bitter blast Cold, cold o’er their buds and their blossoms past? If my name is said, are their leaves yet stirred To the olden thrill at the cherished word? And say, oh say, will those dear, heart flowers, Still bloom for me in the Eden bowers? * * * * * AH, DO NOT SPEAK SO COLDLY. Ballad. WORDS BY FITZGERALD. MUSIC BY BENKERT. Published by permission of Edward L. Walker, 160 Chestnut Street.