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 THE ROSE'S FETE 
 
 A POEM 
 
 BY 
 
 ELEANOR FREEMAN 
 
 CINCINNATI 
 
 STANDARD PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 1883 
 

 Copyright, iS55, by 
 Standard Publishing Co, 
 
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 
 
 MRS. PETER RUDOLPH NEFF. 
 
 A flower herself, whose influence sweet 
 Breathes ever through her home, 
 
 And circling thence, in blessing falls 
 Where'er her footsteps roam. 
 
THE ROSE'S FETE: 
 
 ROSE— FORGET-ME-NOT— PANSY— DAISY— HELIOTROPE- 
 VIOLET — IVY— WOODBINE — MYRTLE — LILY. 
 
 FORGET-ME-NOT . 
 
 Queen crowned of flowers, thy chosen month, 
 
 Thine own resplendent June is here ; 
 The sun-god shines with brightest ray. 
 
 The birdling sings its sweetest tune. 
 And joyous Nature bids that we, 
 
 From wildwood nook and garden gay, 
 With fairest flowrets of our kind 
 
 To thee our tribute meet should pay. 
 Deign then to take, oh, royal Rose, 
 
 My flowers renowned in legends old, 
 That took their name, when on the Rhine 
 
 Rose high the robber's castle hold. 
 Now, soft the blue Rhine glides along 
 
 By Ehrenbreitstein's stately towers, 
 And robber chiefs no more lay waste 
 
 Its vineyards fair and garden bowers. 
 Unharmed the peasant prunes his vines, 
 
 Or guides his light skiff on its way. 
 No more from castled crags above 
 
 The mermaid lures him with her lay. 
 But once a maid, as mermaid fair, 
 
 Stood with her lover on that shore. 
 And o'er the beetling rock beheld 
 
 A flower, she ne'er had seen before. 
 
THE ROSE'S FETE. 
 
 " Seest thou on yonder ruin gray," 
 
 She cried, ' ' those starry blossoms fair ? 
 I fain would twine them in a wreath. 
 
 And wear the garland in my hair." 
 Swift as the arrow from the bow, 
 
 The lover flies the flowers to grasp ; 
 The treacherous ground beneath him yields. 
 
 But still his hands the flowrets clasp, 
 And, sinking 'neath the cruel wave. 
 
 He flings them upward to the shore 
 And dying cries, ** Forget-me-not ! 
 
 Forget-me-not for evermore ! " 
 And thus the flower so dearly won 
 
 The blue forget-me-not was named, 
 And ever since as emblem fair 
 
 Of Constancy and Love is famed. 
 
 A noble emblem thine, my flower, 
 For Constancy and Love are gems 
 
 That well may grace, with purer light. 
 Earth's richest, brightest diadems. 
 
 PANSY. 
 
 In velvet robes the Pansy comes. 
 
 With gleams of gold and purple light. 
 As best beseems the flower of Thought, 
 
 The emblem of the spirit's might. 
 For Thought is royal as the Power, 
 
 The Infinite, that gave it birth, 
 And, free as free wind's onward course. 
 
 It bows before no throne of Earth. 
 
THE ROSE'S FETE. 
 
 What to it are jewelled crowns, 
 
 What Life's empty pomp and show ? 
 It clothes its own rich world in light 
 
 Brighter than the diamond's glow. 
 Delving in the soul's deep caverns, 
 
 Wondrous gems it findeth there, 
 Waiting for the Master's hand 
 
 To bear them to the upper air. 
 And when, across astonished eyes, 
 
 The dazzling glory finds its way, 
 The slaves of Fashion cry, amazed, 
 
 " Oh, give to us this living ray ! " 
 Then proudly answers Thought, the Grand, 
 
 "No empty head my crown can bear, 
 The workers in the hive of Life 
 
 Alone these brilliant gems shall wear, 
 And crowned with light, shall scale the heights 
 
 Where meaner spirits fear to soar. 
 And gaze on wonders of the deep 
 
 Far, far beneath the ocean's roar." 
 Low bends the hoary head of Time 
 
 Before the Thought-encircled brow. 
 The Past gives up its garnered wealth. 
 
 The Present yields its harvest now. 
 And e'en the Future gives to Thought 
 
 Bright visions of a fadeless bower. 
 Where yet may bloom in purer light 
 
 The Pansy's gold and purple flower. 
 
 Thanks for thy gift, oh flower of Thought, 
 It graces well our festal hour ; 
 
THE ROSE'S FETE. 
 
 For vain were wit or beauty's charm, 
 If lofty thought disdained our bower. 
 
 DAISY. 
 
 No velvet robes, or colors gay, 
 
 The Daisy's simple flower can claim ; 
 And yet the Poet's art hath twined 
 
 For it a fadeless wreath of fame. 
 The bard to Scotia's heart most dear. 
 
 The Burns, whose sweet and touching lay 
 Hath cast a charm o'er all her fields, 
 
 i\Iy flowret's name hath famed for aye. 
 And daisies cluster round his tomb 
 
 Who sleeps in Dr\'burgh's ruined pile, 
 Whose gentle spirit seemeth yet 
 
 To wander through each shadowy aisle. 
 To him, as to all noble hearts, 
 
 The flower of Innocence was dear ; 
 It met him in his daily walks. 
 
 And crowned at last, his honored bier. 
 It blossoms, too, in England's vales, 
 
 Along the Severn's sedgy moor, 
 And where the Irish Shannon laves 
 
 The simple gardens of the poor. 
 By Gallic streams its flowers are found. 
 
 The star-eyed marguerites of France, 
 That gave their name to her, the Pearl, 
 
 To whose bright face was turned each glance. 
 For Learning, Beauty, Grace, renewned. 
 
 She shone, of royal dames the star. 
 Whose radiance lingers yet around 
 
 The ancient chateau of Navarre. 
 
THE ROSE'S FETF. 
 
 And by the mountain torrent's side, 
 
 Along the castle's ivied wall, 
 Still spring the daisies, where, of old, 
 
 She bloomed, the fairest flower of all. 
 And daisies now, at Nature's call, 
 
 I bring to deck the festal bower, 
 Where thou dost reign, oh lovely rose. 
 
 Fit type of Valois' peerless flower. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 And thou, as pure and fair as she, 
 O flower of Innocence, we greet, 
 
 And gladly see thy blossoms here 
 
 Where Flora's treasured darlings meet 
 
 HELIOTROPE. 
 
 For one brief moment, from the sky 
 
 Where bums the source of hght and heat, 
 I turn away, O Queen, to lay 
 
 My fragrant blossoms at thy feet. 
 When crimson banners in the East, 
 
 Betoken that the rosy Hours 
 To Helios' car are opening wide 
 
 The gates that lead to earthly bowers. 
 Then must the flowrets of the sun, 
 
 Like Jews of old, their faces turn 
 To greet the coming of the god. 
 
 When first his rising glories bum. 
 The dew-drops on each tiny leaf 
 
 He touches with his arrows bright. 
 And lo ! they gleam through purple mist, 
 
 A thousand gems of flashing Hght. 
 
THE ROSE'S FETE. 
 
 But on the steeds immortal run; 
 
 And still the Heliotrope must turn 
 Till, from the zenith shining down, 
 
 She sees the full, red radiance burn. 
 Then glows the flower with light divine. 
 
 And fragrance fills the ambient air, 
 Till, through the portals of the West, 
 
 She marks the sunset dying there. 
 But well she knows, that with the morn. 
 
 Her king will mount again his throne ; 
 And through the watches of the night, 
 
 She thinks and dreams of him alone. 
 
 High honor dost thou yield to us, 
 
 Devotion's sweet and cherished flower. 
 
 In leaving thus, to grace our fete. 
 
 Thy worshiped king for one brief hour. 
 
 VIOLET. 
 
 In mossy woodlands dark and deep 
 
 The flower of Modesty is seen, 
 Though now it comes in courtly guise 
 
 To pay sweet tribute to its Queen. 
 But best it loves the forest old. 
 
 Where bright the brooklet leaps away. 
 And through the dark and glossy leaves 
 
 The flashing sunbeams dance and play. 
 Yet oft, transplanted from the woods. 
 
 In palace bowers, it blooms and fades ; 
 Sans Souci's gardens know it well, 
 
 And Schonbrunn's dim and shady glades. 
 
THE ROSE'S FETE. 
 
 It blossomed round the dairy farm, 
 
 Where Austria's daughter strove in vain, 
 Amid the gilded pomp of courts, 
 
 A peasant's simple joys to gain. 
 In vain she donned the milkmaid's garb, 
 
 It could not still the wild unrest, 
 The threatening of the Paris mob 
 
 Had wakened in her troubled breast. 
 In vain she strove to lay aside 
 
 The glories of her lofty state ; 
 The victim of a vicious age 
 
 She fell, a sacrifice to Fate. 
 The stately head was doomed to bend 
 
 Beneath the murd'rous guillotine. 
 While loud rejoiced the frantic mob 
 
 To see the murder of a queen. 
 Still, in the park of fair Versailles, 
 
 Embowered in old, majestic trees, 
 Her rustic houses rear their roofs. 
 
 And violets still perfume the breeze; 
 But saddest memories linger now 
 
 The wild, deserted spot around. 
 And but the passing traveler's hand 
 
 Will pluck the violets from the ground, 
 And bear with them to distant lands 
 
 The thought, that Justice, outraged long 
 With flow of blood, and fall of kings, 
 
 Will right at last each grievous wrong. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Alas, my flower, that oft the good 
 In that wild strife must perish too. 
 
THE ROSE'S FETE. 
 
 When man defies stern Order's rule 
 E'en in a cause that 's just and true. 
 
 IVY. 
 
 To thy bright fete I come, O Queen, 
 
 Though poets in their music sing 
 That only to the ruined wall, 
 
 The Ivy tendrils love to cling. 
 'Tis true, that better than the fire 
 
 That burns in youthful beauty's glow, 
 It loves the majesty of age, 
 
 The quiet grace the years -bestow. 
 And so it hangs its garlands round 
 
 The mighty minsters of the Past, 
 Through whose dim aisles resounded once 
 
 The organ's peal, the trumpet's blast, 
 When kings before the altar knelt. 
 
 And clouds of incense filled the nave. 
 While white-robed priests implored high Heaven 
 
 To bless the banners of the brave, — 
 The banners of ths red-cross host, 
 
 That fought beneath the Moslem sky. 
 Till o'er Jerusalem's heights, the Cross 
 
 Above the Crescent towered on high, 
 Then back to England's castle halls. 
 
 And France's ivy-mantled towers. 
 The bold Crusader led again 
 
 The remnant of his scattered powers. 
 For knights from France and England, too, 
 
 And many a fair Italian town. 
 Before the Holy Sepulchre 
 
 The shield and spear in death laid down. 
 
THE ROSE'S FfeTE. 
 
 Yet constant still, the Ivy grows 
 Their old, ancestral walls along, 
 
 And through the ages ring their names 
 In Tasso's proud, immortal song. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 Protecting Power of ruins gray, 
 
 Thy glossy leaves shall welcome be, 
 
 For nobler emblem none may claim 
 Than that which Flora gives to thee. 
 
 WOODBINE. 
 
 Unlike the Ivy's hardy plant 
 
 That takes its succor from the ground, 
 The gentle Woodbine droops and dies 
 
 If no supporting branch is found. 
 Affection's flower, it loves the homes 
 
 Where happy hearts in union dwell, 
 And gladly clusters o'er the thatch 
 
 And decks with bloom the rustic well. 
 It seeketh not the palace wall. 
 
 Nor lofty towers of old renown ; 
 For these, it knoweth well, can boast 
 
 The laurel and the ivy crown. 
 An humbler ministry it hath, 
 
 Like His who dwelt on Earth of old, 
 The gentle Shepherd gathering in 
 
 The weary wanderers to his fold. 
 Like Him, it gives to humble homes 
 
 The glory of its presence fair, 
 And softly sheds its fragrance round 
 
 As sweet as Heaven's own native air ; 
 
THE ROSE'S FETE. 
 
 Around the storm-rent oak it twines 
 
 Its graceful tendrils, clinging fast 
 To hide the scars the lightning makes, 
 
 When swift it rides the rushing blast, 
 The oak leaves fade and fall, but still 
 
 The Woodbine flowers with fragrant breath 
 Cling round the tree, an emblem true 
 
 Of Love that dieth not with death. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 True Christians they, who give, like thee, 
 Sweet flower, to lowly homes their grace. 
 
 And likest unto Him, who says. 
 The pure in heart shall see his face. 
 
 The Myrtle comes with trailing vines 
 
 That crowned of old the Paphian queen, 
 When in the sacred groves of Greece, 
 
 By mortal eyes her face was seen. 
 And Myrtle groves grew round the spot 
 
 Where rose her temple's lofty dome, 
 With many a marble colonnade, 
 
 Beneath the purple sky of Rome. 
 But ancient legends tell, that where 
 
 The sacred Myrtle rears her head. 
 No other flower can on the spot 
 
 In perfect bloom, its fragrance shed. 
 The emblem of a selfish love 
 
 That lives unto itself alone. 
 My flower would scarcely dare to come 
 
 And bow, fair Rose, before thy throne, 
 
THE ROSE'S FETE. 
 
 But for the thought, that legends oft, 
 
 In coming down the centuries long, 
 Have gained a little more than truth 
 
 From hero's tale and poet's song. 
 And so the Myrtle well may claim 
 
 A purer emblem for her own, 
 The Love Divine that shines on all, 
 
 And makes the humblest heart its throne. 
 
 A beauty Venus never knew 
 It sheds upon the plainest face ; 
 
 Then let such Love, thine emblem be. 
 Unselfish, pure, and full of grace. 
 
 Ye all have come, my sisters fair, 
 
 With loveliest blossoms from your bower, 
 And I, too, bring my offering meet, 
 
 The Saviour's own imperial flower. 
 Majestic in Genesaret's vale. 
 
 Its stately head it raised on high. 
 And caught the glowing tints that gild, 
 
 In eastern climes, the sunset sky ; 
 For there, in rainbow hues arrayed. 
 
 In brighter robes the lilies shone. 
 Than gorgeous raiment of a king, 
 
 Or purple trappings of his throne. 
 The wisest monarch of the Earth, 
 
 The pride of Judah's royal line. 
 Could not, with all his glorious gains. 
 
 The Lily's splendid garb outshine. 
 
THE ROSE'S FETE. 
 
 Though rich and rare the purple webs 
 
 From looms of Tyre and Sidon won. 
 Their splendor paled before the light 
 
 Of flowers, that neither toiled nor spun. 
 In western lands, the Lily lost 
 
 The hues, caught from the sun's bright glance, 
 But royal still, it graced in gold 
 
 The gorgeous oriflamme of France. 
 St. Louis bore his lily flag 
 
 Back to the Saviour's sacred shrine. 
 And on it led his warrior host 
 
 To free the soil of Palestine. 
 Bright have the Bourbon lilies shone 
 
 On many a scene of royal state. 
 And low have drooped their golden heads, 
 
 When o'er them swept the breath of Fate. 
 Relentless Fate that drove their flag 
 
 From palace wall and fortress tower, 
 Till now but in the stranger's land 
 
 It floats above the exile's bower. 
 Yet memories of its glorious past 
 
 Have veiled the Fleur de Lis with grace. 
 The inajesty that crowned of old 
 
 The noblest of the Bourbon race. 
 And painter's skill, and sculptor's art, 
 
 The Lily's waxen leaves have traced 
 In scenes of old, historic fame 
 
 That once its living beauty graced. 
 The marble Lion of Lucerne, 
 
 Beside the Switzer's Forest Sea, 
 Bears record of the gallant band 
 
 That died to save the Fleur de Lis, 
 
THE ROSE'S FETE. 15 
 
 When bloody License, in the name 
 Of Liberty and Law, spread wide 
 
 O'er all the sunny plains of France, 
 Destruction's ever rising tide. 
 
 Imperial flower, thy deathless name 
 
 Is woven in the web of Time, 
 Where shines for aye the Lily fair 
 
 As type of Majesty sublime. 
 The Rose, too, has her memories sweet, 
 
 For she in many lands is known, 
 In southern vales her buds unfold. 
 
 On Alpine heights her seeds are sown ; 
 Love claims her, too, as emblem fair. 
 
 Where'er his banner meets the breeze, 
 And roses follow where he leads, 
 
 Through tropic zones, or polar seas. 
 Yet, flower of Secrecy she reigns 
 
 And never may her leaves disclose, 
 Though grief or glory be the theme, 
 
 The secrets told bencat]i the Rose. 
 But now, as chosen Queen of Flowers, 
 
 She wears her coronet to-day, 
 And never royal fete was graced 
 
 By such a sweet and fair array. 
 The flowers that poets love to sing, 
 
 That crown the bride and crown the bier, 
 That mingle with Life's weal and woe. 
 
 All, all in gala dress are here. 
 And each hath blended with her gift 
 
 Some glorious memory of the Past, 
 
l6 THE ROSE'S FETE. 
 
 Some thoughts, that clinging round the heart 
 
 The flowret's fragile charm outlast. 
 The blue Forget-me-not will breathe 
 
 Of Constancy in trial's hour, 
 And Pansies cheer the saddened heart 
 
 With strength from Thought's immortal dower. 
 Of Innocence, the Daisy flower, 
 
 Of Faith, the Heliotrope will tell. 
 And Modesty will hear her praise 
 
 Where'er the purple Violets dwell. 
 The proud respect that glorifies, 
 
 The guerdon due to honored age. 
 The Ivy vine will call to mind 
 
 Till Youth, admiring, crowns the sage. 
 Fair Friendship, too, will find her type 
 
 In Woodbines clinging close and fast. 
 When, from the chosen tree, the light 
 
 Of summer's golden glow hath passed. 
 The Myrtle leaf will tell of Him 
 
 Whose love can cheer the darkest hour, 
 While upward to his throne will point 
 
 The Lily's fair, majestic flower. 
 Go, then, my flowers, your influence shed 
 
 On all the lonely homes of Earth ; 
 Your mission is to raise the soul 
 
 On high to Him who gave you birth. 
 The Rose, too, in this mission grand, 
 
 Will gladly bear her queenly part, 
 And be a token of the love 
 
 That fills the great All-Father's heart. 
 
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