To a June Rose
O royal Rose! the Roman dress’d
His feast with thee; thy petals press’d
Augustan brows; thine odour fine,
Mix’d with the three-times-mingled wine,
Lent the long Thracian draught its zest.
What marvel then, if host and guest
By Song, by Joy, by Thee caress’d,
Half-trembled on the half-divine,
O royal Rose!
And yet—and yet—I love thee best
In our old gardens of the West,
Whether about my thatch thou twine,
Or Her’s, that brown-eyed maid of mine,
Who lulls thee on her lawny breast,
O royal Rose!
Austin Dobson.