A rebel rose climbed to the top of the hedge,
And watched the people go up and down
The winding highway, dusty and grey,
That stretched from the village away to the town.
And an anger surged in her passionate heart,
’Gainst the humble garden where she was born,
And her red lips curled at the old flower world,
And she cast around her such looks of scorn
That the lilies drooped ’neath her withering glance,
And the pansies huddled together with fear,
And the poor pinks paled, and each daisy quailed,
And dropped from her lashes a big round tear.
For of the flower-kingdom this rose was queen,
And never were subjects more loyal than they—
And they fondly dreamed she was good as she seemed,
And because they had loved they were proud to obey.
But lo! as she towered in haughty disdain
High over their heads, with an angry gust
The wind swooped down and tore off her crown,
And its jewels went whirling away with the dust.
A VETERAN
In his niche in the hall, the old clock stands,
But hushed is his voice, and still are his hands.
He ceased from his labours long years ago,
And he’s only a “pensioner” now, you know.
He did his duty as long as he could,
For a brave heart beat in his breast of wood,
And you could depend on all he said
Till age, at last, turned him queer in the head.
With a visor of glass o’er his grim old face,
In his armour,—a straight, stiff, oaken case,
He “stands at ease” in his sentry box,
And leaves time-telling to younger clocks.