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.