Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!

Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms And cradled in the winds;

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway, And dared the st.u.r.dy bl.u.s.terer 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 un.o.bserved;

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.

G.o.d 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.

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!

Edgar Fawcett [1847-1904]

THE ROSE OF MAY

Ah! there's the lily, marble pale, The bonny broom, the cistus frail; The rich sweet pea, the iris blue, The larkspur with its peac.o.c.k 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 bal.u.s.trade; 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 pa.s.sed away; And their old portraits, prim and tall, Are mouldering in the mouldering hall; The terrace and the bal.u.s.trade 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sing 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 cloth, in b.l.o.o.d.y leaves, The sentence of thy early death contain.

Some clown's coa.r.s.e 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 Antic.i.p.ating life, to hasten death!

Richard Fanshawe [1608-1666]

THE SHAMROCK

When April rains make flowers bloom And Johnny-jump-ups come to light, And clouds of color and perfume Float from the orchards pink and white, I see my shamrock in the rain, An emerald spray with raindrops set, Like jewels on Spring's coronet, So fair, and yet it breathes of pain.

The shamrock on an older sh.o.r.e Sprang from a rich and sacred soil Where saint and hero lived of yore, And where their sons in sorrow toil; And here, transplanted, it to me Seems weeping for the soil it left: The diamonds that all others see Are tears drawn from its heart bereft.

When April rain makes flowers grow, And sparkles on their tiny buds That in June nights will over-blow And fill the world with scented floods, The lonely shamrock in our land-- So fine among the clover leaves-- For the old springtime often grieves,-- I feel its tears upon my hand.

Maurice Francis Egan [1852-1924]