Volume 19 / Part 2 — Cora.

A flower of the pale, sad South:

Yet pale nor sad is she;

For she blooms on a wonderful tree

That knows not blight or drouth—

A certain miraculous tree

Our Lady has planted down South.

A rose let me call you, dear girl—

A fadeless and thornless rose;

So richly your modesty shows

Its blushes bejewell'd with pearl—

And a dew-drop of grace every pearl—

That I think of the Mystical Rose.

I have seen, and must needs pass on;

But this I bear with me away:

A fragrance that will not be gone,

But haunts me, and most when I pray.

It comes like the memories of May

From the pure, happy years that are gone.

Then the Lord of the sweet and the fair

(For whom is all beauty alone),

I pray him that floweret so rare

No hand may dare cull but his own;

That no other bosom may wear

This rose of the South than his own.

[pg 419]