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]