Ballad. Poem by Fidelia S T Hill

A rosier blooms in yonder wood,
A rosier fair I trow;
There is a canker in the bud,
A blight hangs on the bough:
Around it wave, tall forest trees,
Near it no sun beams fall,
It droops, and soon the wintry breeze
Shall bid it fade withal;
For ah! alack it cannot be
That it should live, that fair rose tree.
The tears that water'd it are shed,
The sighs that gently fann'd,
Are hush'd and she is with the dead
Who reared it by her hand:
Bright summer too, is past and gone,
With all her gaudy flowers,
And paly Autumn hastens on
The dull and dreary hours;
And ah! alack, it cannot be
That it should live, that fair rose tree.
O gather then, its blossoms white
Or ever the decay,
Of canker and destructive blight,
Have stolen their sweets away;
And we will strew them o'er the bed
The silent, last repose,
Of her who rear'd the lovely head,
Of the fair forest rose.
For ah! alack, it cannot be
That it should live, that fair rose tree.