THE Red Rose bowed one golden summer's night,
The Red Rose bent, low whispering to the White,
"Thou pallid shadow of a beauteous flower,
Unchanged from purpling dawn to sunset hour;
Whose calm, cold heart beneath all lights that beam,
Seems centred always in an Arctic dream;
Prim, puritanic, passionless, austere,
What would'st thou give my opulent life to share?
To every breeze--the daintiest breeze that blows,
Each petalled curve of mine more richly glows;--
And all the countless tints of heaven-born grace
But touch to make more bright my Hebe face!"
"Ah! well, fulfil thy fate!" the White Rose said;
"List to the wooing winds! uplift thy head
In sovereign pride through every radiant phase
Of star-illumined nights and cloudless days;
Let wingèd lovers thy warm leaves dispart,
To find voluptuous shelter next thy heart.
Fulfil thy fate, O Queen! but leave to me
My stainless calm and cloistral sanctity;
Those passionate airs that trembling round thee meet,
Sink in soft worship at my veilèd feet;
The reverent sun-rays shimmering gently down,
Weave o'er my brows a halo for a crown;
And while I muse in star, or moonshine faint,
The flowers seem murmuring, 'Lo! our garden saint!' "
The Red Rose heard, but ere she spoke, her mouth
Thralled by the light, quick kisses of the South,
Passed from arch wonder, blent with gay disdain,
Back to its dimpled mirthfulness again;
And she,--the garden's empress--proud yet fond,--
Of summer flowers, the matchless Rosamond,--
Looked at her pale-hued sister, dew-impearled,
As that fair marvel of the island world,
Might, in her ruddier nature's Tropic glow,
Have viewed a calm St. Agnes' brow of snow,
With some dim sense of mystic space between
The heaven-bound votaress and the earthly queen!
