Classic Poem

The red rose blooms by the tumbling wall,
The blush rose bends by the open gate,
The mocking-bird, with its low, clear call,
Sings on, though the hour is late:
The yellow rose like a star shines out,
The white rose sways, a wan, sweet ghost,
The beetles boom, and the marshes shout
The joy of their living host.

The red rose burns with a crimson glow
Like wine that gleams when the blood is warm,
And brings vague dreams of the long ago,
When the world was wild with storm—
When a stalwart knight, with lance at rest,
Drove swift through the battle's angry tide,
With a red rose bound to his helmet's crest,
And there in the carnage died.

The blush rose tells of a distant time
When the Persian groves were loud with song,
And camel bells woke a merry chime
Where the desert paths grew long;
When a love-lorn maiden lingering stayed,
Waiting for one who had grown a-cold,
Till the rose and she at rest were laid
In the garden's fragrant mould.

The yellow rose, with its heavy breath,
Recalls wide forests and dim lagoons,
Where loathsome serpents keep watch for death,
In the light of tropic moons;
And ruins massive, and grim, and vast,
In silent grandeur a vigil keep,
Where the giant kings of a mighty past
Lie cold in a dreamless sleep.

The white rose pictures a vision dim,
Of aisle, and transept, and sculptured saint,
Where the dying echoes of a hymn
In distance throb and faint;
And shining out, where the arches bar
The purple gloom of the rounded dome,
A face that glows like a glorious star
Set deep in a sea of foam.

The red rose tosses its crimson spray,
The blush rose falls in a fragrant rain,
The mocking-bird, where the cool leaves sway,
Sings on with his low refrain;
The yellow rose with the dew is wet,
The white rose—where has the white rose flown?
Ah! yes; I made it a coronet
For a fond love, all mine own.