The Roman Rose-Seller

Not from Paestum come my roses; Patrons, seeMy flowers are Roman-blown; their nectariesDrop honey amber, and their petals throwRich crimsons on the lucent marble of the shrineWhere snowy Dian lifts her pallid brow,As crimson lips of Love may seek to warmA sister glow in hearts as pulseless hewn.Caesar from Afric wars returns to-day;Patricians, buy my royal roses; strewHis way knee-deep, as though old Tiber roll'dA tide of musky roses from his bed to doA wonder, wond'rous homage. Marcus Lucius, thouTo-day dost wed; buy roses, roses, roses,To mingle with the nuptial myrtle; look,I strip the polish'd thorns from the stems,The nuptial rose should be a stingless flower;Lucania, pass not by my roses. Virginia,Here is a rose that has a canker in't, and yetIt is most glorious-dyed and sweeter smellsThan those death hath not touched. To-day they bearThe shield of Claudius with his spear upon it,Close upon Caesar's chariot--heap, heap it upWith roses such as these; 'tis true he's deadAnd there's the canker! but, Romans, heDied glorious, there's the perfume! and his virtuesAre these bright petals; so buy my roses, Widow.No Greek-born roses mine. Priestess, priestess!Thy ivory chariot stay; here's a rose and notA white one, though thy chaste hands attendOn Vesta's flame. Love's of a colour--be it thatWhich ladders Heaven and lives amongst the Gods;Or like the Daffodil blows all about the earth;Or, Hesperus like, is one sole star uponThe solemn sky which bridges same sad life,So here's a crimson rose: Be, thou as pureAs Dian's tears iced on her silver cheek,And know no quality of love, thou artA sorrow to the Gods! Oh mighty Love!I would my roses could but chorus Thee.No roses of Persepolis are mine. Helot, here--I give thee this last blossom: A bee as redAs Hybla's golden toilers sucked its sweets;A butterfly, wing'd like to Eros nipp'dIts new-pinked leaves; the sun, bright despot, stoleThe dew night gives to all. Poor slave, methinksA bough of cypress were as gay a gift, and yetIt hath some beauty left! a little scarlet--forThe Gods love all; a little perfume, for there is no life,Poor slave, but hath its sweetness. Thus I makeMy roses Oracles. O hark! the cymbals beatIn god-like silver bursts of sound; I goTo see great Caesar leading Glory home,From Campus Martius to the Capitol!