The Rose. (Roze) O THOU Rose, thou lovely Rose! Why thus early bloom'st thou bright? Why doth frost thy young bloom smite? Why frost-stricken fad'st in sight? Why, when faded, fall'st thou light? Long time I sate at even late Till cock-crowing alone, Nor longer could I ought await; The pine-torch all was gone. I slept, I dream'd, it to me seem'd; Ah me! unhappy maid! The gold ring from my finger fell, That my right hand displayed. Out slipp'd the costly stone of price, That in the ring should be; - The precious stone I never found, No lover came to me!
Národní knihovna v Praze [sign. 9 H 520]