To that condition did it most aspire
Where it might find oblivion's healing balm ;
Yet never dared it hope forgetfulness
Would come to pity, linger o'er, and bless;
For in its struggles it had learned that sin
Keeps memory awake for evermore ;
Sad soul ! it could not hope to enter in
To rest, and shut behind it the world's door!
And so it bowed beneath its heavy load,
And stumbled on along a weary road.

TO A ROSE

PLUCKED IN THE GARDEN OF THE CLOISTER OP SAN JUAN LOS

REYES, IN TOLEDO, SPAIN,

I

Fair blossom that the kind December sun
Encourages with kisses and with smiles
In this strange land where winter, scarce begun,
Makes

way for summer and her joys and wiles ;
Fair rose from cloister-garden, canst thou tell
The story of that dim, romantic past
Ere great Toledo from its glory fell-
Ere earth a mantle o'er its ruins cast;
Ere conqueror and conquered slipped away
To dust and melancholy slow decay?

Tell me, O blossom tender,
Of old Toledo's splendour!

II

Sweet rose, ere ravished from thy native tree,
Hast never seen wild visions of the dead;
Of saints in odorous embroidery,
Of noble Cardinal with hoary head,

к

Of haughty Roman or aggressive Moor,
Of fierce Inquisitor and man-at-arms;
Of grave hidalgo and of Jewish boor;
Of jewelled maidens with their thousand charms ?
In grand procession sometimes do they pass
By magic moonlight o'er the perfumed grass?

Tell me, O blossom tender,
Of old Toledo's splendour !

III

O flow'ret, never from their marble tombs
Do knights and ladies rise and gaze, in fear,
Out through the solemn silence and the glooms
Upon the ruined walls and turrets here?
Methinks some Bishop many ages dead
Betimes arises from his grave and steals
To that fair shrine where, chroniclers have said,
The Virgin set her feet; and, kneeling, feels
With pious fingers all the sacred stone,
And kisses them ; then prays, and makes his moan

That Heaven deigns not to render
Back old Toledo's splendour!

O BIRDS that fit by ocean's rim,

And make your plaint to silent sky : O waves that lap horizons dim,

Ye shall be tranquil by-and-by!

II

O rose-tree giving petals fair

In some lost garden lone to lie,
Weep not because your stems are bare;

They shall reblossom by-and-by.

III

O singer, singing in the night,

Turn not and curse the heavens and die ; Your heritage is peace and light

You shall be richer by-and-by !

SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE

AND PARLIAMENT STREET