Anthony Bleecker (1770–1827)

SEVEN summers have flown, and once more do I see

The fields and the groves I deserted so long:

Scarce a bud yet appears on the winter-beat tree,

Nor a bird yet enlivens the sky with a song.

For though spring has returned, yet the chilly wind blows,

And the violets and daisies still hide in the ground;

But one dear little flower, one beautiful Rose,

Here blooms and here blushes the seasons all round.

Thou pride of the plain, little queen of the grove,

Still fresh is thy foliage and sweet thy perfume,

And still the bright object of Paridel’s love,

As when thy first buds were beginning to bloom.

And though fate has decreed that he must not aspire

This blossom divine on his bosom to wear,

Yet still must he cherish the tender desire,

And make thee forever the theme of his prayer.

Blow gently, ye zephyrs, be genial, ye showers,

Bright and warm be the sky o’er thy dear native vale,

And may no bitter blast ever ravage the bowers

That guard thy fair frame from the merciless gale.

And when the short season of blooming shall end,

Which fate to the children of nature hath given,

May some cherub of beauty, to snatch thee, descend,

And bear thee to bloom in the gardens of heaven.