THE WHITE ROSE.
By JOSEPH O’CONNOR.
The poet moralist Has ever taken sombre joy to sing Upon a theme so trist, And write in dust of roses lessons grim— That pleasures must be snatched ere they grow dim, For germs of death in folds of beauty cling;
That since the roses die, No mortal loveliness may long endure; No joy outlast a sigh; No passion’s thrill, no labor’s work remain Beyond a season; that Decay doth reign;— Though in the tyrant’s very riot, sure, Some pledge of hope is found That all the universe is not a grave And life sits somewhere crowned. Not Tasso’s soft persuasion unto sin I find, dear rose, thy withered leaves within, Nor any precept Epicurus gave; To me thou dost not breathe A thought of festivals, or memory Of woven, wine-dipped wreath, Or kisses on ripe lips, or fond regret For bounds by time to fleeting pleasures set, Or wish to bring thy beauty back to thee.
To kiss thy leaves I bend, And lo! The crash of cannon fills mine ears; I see the banners blend Into the battle smoke; and the long lines Of marching men where glint of bayonet shines Through clouds of dust; the hopes, the hates, the fears Of old thrill through my heart; Again the myriad ghosts of the great war From out their cerements start; Again the nation in the contest strains Its every nerve; again the deep refrains Of groan and cheer break on us from afar!
What mystery of power To fill the mind with visions such as these Lies in this scentless flower? ’Tis three and twenty years this very June, Since first it opened to the southern noon And swung in languor to a southern breeze; And on the stalwart breast Of one that wore the blue, while yet in bloom, ’Twas set in gallant jest; In the long march’s dust it drooped its head And in the smoke of Gettysburg lay dead, With many a life more precious finding doom.