Page:The complete poems of Emily Bronte.djvu/316

260 The rose was borne to another land,

And grew in another bed;

It was cultured by another hand,

And it sprung and flourishèd;

And fair it budded day by day

Beneath a new sun's cheering ray.

But long lies the dew on its crimson leaves,

It almost looks like tears;

The flower for the yeoman's home-close grieves

Amid a King's parterres.

Little moss-rose, cease to weep,

Let regret and sorrow sleep.

The rose is blasted, withered, blighted,

Its root has felt a worm,

And like a heart beloved and slighted,

Failed, faded, shrunk its form.

Bud of beauty, bonnie flower,

I stole thee from thy natal bower.

I was the worm that withered thee,

Thy tears of dew all fell for me;

Leaf and stalk and rose are gone,

Exile earth they died upon.

Yes, that last breath of balmy scent

With alien breezes sadly blent.