Stanzas.
Oh! where is the rose which was placed on thy bosom?Is it withered and strewn, and the giver forgot?Fond hope would now tell me—ah am I too sanguine—That brighter and fairer was its destined lot.It was a mere trifle, yet given with feeling,When suddenly fated in sorrow to part:And gifts are not valued by trade’s sordid dealing,But esteem’d the more rich as they flow from the heart.If this be their standard, that rose was a treasure!Yet how great its value I’ll not now reveal,But muse in calm silence, with sweet hopeful pleasure,On her who did it in her bosom conceal.
Oh! where is the rose which was placed on thy bosom?Is it withered and strewn, and the giver forgot?Fond hope would now tell me—ah am I too sanguine—That brighter and fairer was its destined lot.It was a mere trifle, yet given with feeling,When suddenly fated in sorrow to part:And gifts are not valued by trade’s sordid dealing,But esteem’d the more rich as they flow from the heart.If this be their standard, that rose was a treasure!Yet how great its value I’ll not now reveal,But muse in calm silence, with sweet hopeful pleasure,On her who did it in her bosom conceal.
Oh! where is the rose which was placed on thy bosom?Is it withered and strewn, and the giver forgot?Fond hope would now tell me—ah am I too sanguine—That brighter and fairer was its destined lot.
Oh! where is the rose which was placed on thy bosom?
Is it withered and strewn, and the giver forgot?
Fond hope would now tell me—ah am I too sanguine—
That brighter and fairer was its destined lot.
It was a mere trifle, yet given with feeling,When suddenly fated in sorrow to part:And gifts are not valued by trade’s sordid dealing,But esteem’d the more rich as they flow from the heart.
It was a mere trifle, yet given with feeling,
When suddenly fated in sorrow to part:
And gifts are not valued by trade’s sordid dealing,
But esteem’d the more rich as they flow from the heart.
If this be their standard, that rose was a treasure!Yet how great its value I’ll not now reveal,But muse in calm silence, with sweet hopeful pleasure,On her who did it in her bosom conceal.
If this be their standard, that rose was a treasure!
Yet how great its value I’ll not now reveal,
But muse in calm silence, with sweet hopeful pleasure,
On her who did it in her bosom conceal.