A lovely tea rose, in a new autumn gown, Looked in at the window one day, And said with a scorn: “’Tis a beautiful morn; But ugly enough is your lay. Do you never grow weary of singing your songs Shut up in that prison of brass? I do not admire Your out of tune lyre, And none seem to listen who pass. “Last night as I beaded my bodice with dew, And shook the perfume from the lace, There came to the fence Such a beautiful prince, And said, looking into my face: “Too lovely thou art to live here so obscure To-morrow with me thou shalt roam.’ So he’s coming to-day, And will bear me away The queen of his heart and his home.” Now, the dear little songster was pruning her wing That had borrowed the sun’s yellow ray, And shaking a note In her quivering throat, Replied in an indifferent way: “My songs will not trouble you long. I discern This breeze is forerunning a storm, And should he delay (This prince) on the way, You must seek other quarters more warm.” “Do you think,” said the rose, with a tremulous tone, “The rain would disfigure my face?” But e’en as she spoke In the sky there awoke A wind that demolished the vase. With features all pale and distorted she cried, Still clinging up close to the glass. “Cry for help.” Said the bird, “They will hear not a word, For none seem to listen who pass.” There’s a moral concealed in the little bird’s throat That never her song will disclose; But oft when the cloud For the sun makes a shroud She thinks of the beautiful rose, Who died with a coronet touching her brow, Crushed from sight by the hurrying throng, And she smiles at a prince, Who yet leans on the fence And hears nothing else but her song. |