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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TIME OF THE ROSES, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Morning is blushing; the gay nightingales
Last Line: Least heeds how speeds the time of the roses!


Morning is blushing; the gay nightingales
Warble their exquisite songs in the vales;
Spring, like a spirit, floats everywhere,
Shaking sweet spice-showers loose from her hair,
Murmurs half-musical sounds from the stream,
Breathes in the valley and shines in the beam.
In, in at the portals that Youth uncloses,
It hastes, it wastes, the Time of the Roses!


Meadows, and gardens, and sun-lighted glades,
Palaces, terraces, grottoes, and shades
Woo thee; a fairy-bird sings in thine ear,
Come and be happy!-an Eden is here!
Knowest thou whether for thee there be any
Years in the Future? Ah! think on how many
A young heart under the mould reposes,
Nor feels how wheels the Time of the Roses!


In the red light of the many-leaved rose,
Mahomet's wonderful mantle re-glows,
Gaudier far, but as blooming and tender,
Tulips and martagons revel in splendour.
Drink from the Chalice of Joy, ye who may!
Youth is a flower of early decay,
And Pleasure a monarch that Age deposes,
When past, at last, the Time of the Roses!


See the young lilies, their scymitar-petals
Glancing like silver 'mid earthier metals:
Dews of the brightest in life-giving showers
Fall all the night on these luminous flowers,
Each of them sparkles afar like a gem;
Wouldst thou be smiling and happy like them?
O, follow all counsel that Pleasure proposes;
It dies, it flies, the Time of the Roses!


Pity the roses! Each rose is a maiden,
Prankt, and with jewels of dew overladen:
Pity the maidens! The moon of their bloom
Rises, to set in the cells of the tomb.
Life has its Winter:-When Summer is gone,
Maidens, like roses, lie stricken and wan;
Though bright as the Burning Bush of Moses,
Soon fades, fair maids, the Time of your Roses!


Lustre and odours and blossoms and flowers,
All that is richest in gardens and bowers,
Teach us morality, speak of Mortality,
Whisper that Life is a swift Unreality!
Death is the end of that lustre, those odours;
Brilliance and Beauty are gloomy foreboders
To him who knows what this world of woes is,
And sees how flees the Time of the Roses!


Heed them not, hear them not! Morning is blushing,
Perfumes are wandering, fountains are gushing;
What though the rose, like a virgin forbidden,
Long under leafy pavilion lay hidden;
Now far around as the vision can stretch,
Wreaths for the pencils of angels to sketch,
Festoon the tall hills the landscape discloses.
O! sweet, though fleet, is the Time of the Roses!


Now the air-drunk from the breath of the flowers-
Faints like a bride whom her bliss overpowers;
Such and so rich is the fragrance that fills
Æther and cloud that its essence distils,
As through thin lily-leaves, earthward again,
Sprinkling with rose-water garden and plain,


O! joyously after the Winter closes,
Returns and burns the Time of the Roses!
O! for some magical vase to imprison
All the sweet incense that yet has not risen!
And the swift pearls that, radiant and rare,
Glisten and drop through the hollows of Air!
Vain! they depart, both the Beaming and Fragrant!
So, too, Hope leaves us, and Love proves a vagrant,
Too soon their entrancing illusion closes,
It cheats, it fleets, the Time of the Roses!


Tempest and Thunder, and War were abroad;
Riot and Turbulence triumphed unawed;
Soliman rose, and the thunders were hushed,
Faction was prostrate, and Turbulence crushed;
Once again Peace in her gloriousness rallies;
Once again shine the glad skies on our valleys;
And sweetly anew the poet composes
His lays in praise of the Time of the Roses!


I, too, MESEEHI, already renowned,
Centuries hence by my songs shall be crowned;
Far as the stars of the wide Heaven shine,
Men shall rejoice in this carol of mine.
Leila! Thou art as a rose unto me:
Think on the nightingale singing for thee;
For he who on love like thine reposes,
Least heeds how speeds the Time of the Roses!






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