Page:Oriental Sketches Dramatic Sketches and Tales.pdf/247

Rh

My rose! my rose! my Provence rose! What can to thee compare? There's not a single flower that blows So sweet, so soft, so fair— I've sought the hills of far Almaine Beside the laughing Rhine, Rich with the red grape's ruby stain And wreathed with many a vine. And stately dames of high degree Their gracious looks have lent, And beamed their blue eyes' rays on me    At tilt and tournament. But oh! my rose! my Provence rose! What can to thee compare? There's not a single flower that blows, So gentle, and so fair.

I've wandered o'er the fields of France Through summer's smiling hour—