Rose.

When the evening broods quiescent     Over mountain, vale and lea,     And the moon uplifts her crescent     Far above the peaceful sea,     Little Rose, the fisher's daughter,     Passes in her cedar skiff     O'er the dreamy waste of water,     To the signal on the cliff.     Have a care, my merry maiden!     Young Adonis though he be,     Many hearts are secret-laden     That have trusted such as he.     Has he worth, and is he truthful?     Thoughtless maiden rarely knows;     But, "He's handsome, brave and youthful,"     Says the heart of little Rose.     Hark! the horn - its shrill vibrations     Tremble through the maiden's breast,     As the sweet reverberations     Dwindle to their whispered rest;     Sweeter far the honied sentence     Sealing up her mind's repose;     Love as yet needs no repentance     In the heart of little Rose.     Heaven shield thee, trusting mortal!     Love has heaved its firstborn sigh;     But from the pellucid portal     Of her calm, indignant eye,     Darts that make the strong man tremble     Pierce his bosom ere he goes;     Rank and station may dissemble,     There is truth in little Rose.     Take my hand, my fisher maiden,     There's a grasp for thee and thine;     Constancy is love's bright Aiden,     Self-denial is divine.     Take my hand upon this plteau,     Let me share thy mortal throes;     Come, dear Love! we'll build our chteau     In the heart of little Rose.