[IMPROMPTU.]
WRITTEN ON RECEIVING A ROSE-BUD FROM A LADY.
Methinks thy gift to wandering bard,
Who weaves for thee this careless strain,
Will prove an amulet to guard
From outward ill and inward pain.
Oh, precious is the bud to me!
On thy fair bosom once it lay;
For richest pearl in Indian sea,
I would not barter it away.
Thy touch hath made it, leaf and stem,
A priceless and a hallowed thing,
Meet for Titania's diadem,
While dancing in the fairy ring.
When faded its voluptuous hue,
A life will linger in the flower,
That needeth not sustaining dew,
Or golden sunshine's nursing power.
By day and in the hush of night,
Grief's shadow from my brow to chase,
Its leaves will summon back to sight
Thy graceful form and classic face.
Thanks for the gift! its leaflet fair
Of thy young heart is emblem sweet;
Place in this bosom may it share,
When lifeless in my winding-sheet!
To the bard's dreamy, gorgeous land
In spirit may we often fly,
And wander, shadowy hand in hand,
Through rose-wreathed halls of fantasy.