On finding one in the author's copy of Dante.
The rose lies withered, once so fair--
The rose that Mary gave to me
In years gone by, when, free of care,
We met on Roslin's flowery lea.
Some fragrance yet its leaves retain,
Some ling'ring tints of beauties o'er;
As in my heart past joys remain--
Long withered now--of her no more!
Too pure to mingle in life's stream,
Too bright for earth's oft clouded sky,
She left us ere the sunny dream
Had shown 'twas one of briefest joy!
Dante! thy love to Beatrice,
Than mine to Mary not more strong,
Though thou hast placed in lasting bliss
Thy lost one in thy lofty song.
Lone withered rose! I'll keep thee still;
Thee no rude hand shall take away;
And o'er thee shall my bosom thrill,
Though thus thou rested in decay.
Young springs shall come, and summers warm
Shall wake the flow'rets of the year;
But no fresh flower shall raise a charm,
Like thou, poor rose, that sleepest here!
