Stanzas.
Oh! where is the rose which was placed on thy bosom?
Is it withered and strewn, and the giver forgot?
Fond hope would now tell me—ah am I too sanguine—
That brighter and fairer was its destined lot.
It was a mere trifle, yet given with feeling,
When suddenly fated in sorrow to part:
And gifts are not valued by trade’s sordid dealing,
But esteem’d the more rich as they flow from the heart.
If this be their standard, that rose was a treasure!
Yet how great its value I’ll not now reveal,
But muse in calm silence, with sweet hopeful pleasure,
On her who did it in her bosom conceal.