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HUNDRED-LEAFED ROSE, by             Poem Explanation         Poet's Biography
First Line: I am, saith the rose, as the voice from the bush
Last Line: That thou raisedst the perishing rose


I am, saith the Rose, as the Voice from the Bush
That spake upon Horeb to Mose:
Hence hangs, like Manszur, her head with a blush
The Hundred-leafèd ROSE.


Like crispèd gold, laid fold over sold,
Like the sun that at Eventide glows,
Like the furnace-bed of Al-Khalill
Is the Hundred-leafèd ROSE.


Her cloak is green, with a gloomy sheen,
Like the garment of beauteous Jose,
And prisoned round by a sentinelled wall
Is the Hundred-leafèd ROSE.


Like Issa, whose breath first woke from Death
The souls in this world of woes,
She vivifies all the fainting air,
The Hundred-leafèd ROSE.


Profound as the wells where Harut and Marut
Of Babel are hung by the toes,
Are the damask deeps where the odour sleeps
Of the Hundred-leafèd ROSE.


As the Prophet's word in the Solitudes
Made the doors of the rock unclose,
The Summer's voice unrolls the buds
Of the Hundred-leafèd ROSE.


Like Solomon's throne in olden years
Her crimson richness shews;
And the Dives protect with a ring of spears
The seal of the sacred ROSE.


The Flower of Flowers as a convent towers
Where Virtue and Truth repose;
The leaves are the halls, and the convent walls
Are the thorns that fence the ROSE.


Like Balkis Queen for her queenly mien,
Like Balkis for queenly clothes,
Is the bride of the bowers, the pride of the flowers,
The Hundred-leafèd ROSE.


Like Daoud King on the psaltery playing,
Each wooing Zephyr that goes,
At will from flower to flower a-maying,
Hath sweetest airs for the ROSE.


Who sees the sun set round and red
Over Lebanon's brow of snows,
May dream how burns in a lily-bed
The Hundred-leafèd ROSE.


The sun is an archer swift and strong,
With a myriad silver bows,
And each beam is a barb to pierce the garb
Of the Hundred-leafèd ROSE.


While the moon all the long, long, spectral night
Her light o'er the garden throws,
Like a beauty shrinking away from sight
Is the Hundred-leafèd ROSE.


Like the tears of a maiden, whose heart, ever laden
With sorrowful thought, overflows
At her weeping eye, are the dews that lie
On the feminine cheek of the ROSE.


As Man after Fame, as the moth round the flame,
As the steer when his partner lows,
Is the Nightingale, when his fruitless wail
Is poured to the silent ROSE.


A Princess tranced by a talisman's power,
Who bloomingly slumbers, nor knows
That the sorcerer's spell encircles her bower,
Is the Hundred-leafèd ROSE.


Alas! that her kiosk of emerald rare
Should be powerless all to oppose
The venom of Serpent Envy's glare
When its eye is fixed on the ROSE.


A virgin alone in an alien land,
Whose friends are but smiling foes,
A palace plundered by every hand
Is the Hundred-leafèd ROSE.


Oh! why should she dwell in a desert dell
With the darnel and mandrake?-Those
Were never meet mates for her, the proud,
The Hundred-leafèd ROSE.


In an Eden which Heat hath never consumed,
Where Winter-night never froze,
Should only bloom, should ever have bloomed,
The Hundred-leafèd ROSE.


Oh! give her the gardens of Peristan,
Where only the musk-wind blows,
And where she need fear nor Storm nor Man,
The Hundred-leafèd ROSE.


For the Summer's hand of love and light
In the luminous flowers it strows
Earth's valleys withal, drops none so bright
As the Hundred-leafèd ROSE.


Hail, Suleiman Sultan! Shadow of God!
Great Prince, whose bounty bestows
And scatters jewels like dust abroad,
As the Wind the leaves of the ROSE.


The pining world felt sick and sad,
And laboured with troubles and throes,
Till thine avatar bade all be glad.
Like the young Spring's earliest ROSE.


Now light is in Heaven and health upon Earth,
June joyously comes and goes;
Rich Plenty has drowned the remembrance of Dearth,
And the Thistle gives way to the ROSE.


The shepherd is piping a tune of delight,
The husbandman reaps as he sows;
The gardens forget the black seasons of blight,
And Summer is vain of the ROSE.


Reign, Sultan, for ever! and this be thy praise,
Though Eulogy overflows
With the marvels thy marvellous era displays,
That thou raisedst the perishing ROSE.






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