London Lyrics — The Enchanted Rose

"O where dost thou trip it," the patriarch said, "A Rose in thy bosom so daintily laid?

A pilgrim, whose shadow extends to the tomb, Would gaze on its beauty, would breathe its perfume!"

"O raise not thy hand," cried the maid, "nor suppose 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.

And sigh not, old man, such a doleful 'heigh-ho,' Dost think I possess not the will to say, 'No'?

And shake not thy head, I could pitiless be Should supplicants come even younger than thee."

The damsel pass'd on with a confident smile, The old man extended his walk for a while, His musings were trite, and their burthen, 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 the patriarch's tread,-- "How tranquil is Nature!"

that patriarch said;

He onward advances, where boughs overshade A lonelier spot, and the barley is laid.

He gazes around, not a creature is there, No sound upon earth, and no voice in the air;

But fading there lies a poor bloom that he knows, Neglected, unheeded--a beautiful Rose.