In a Russian meadow, a wild rose fair
     Bloomed sweet, in the olden days;
And proud Queen Catherine, passing there,
     Beheld, admiring, its beauty rare,
And crowned it with royal praise.

“This rose is worthy,” she smiling said,
     “To bloom in our garden bowers—
And hence transferred to a nobler bed,
     Its boughs shall flourish, its blossoms spread
In the shade of our palace towers.”

She posted a soldier to guard its bloom,
     And shield it from chance of harm,—
So, in its circle of sweet perfume
     The sentinel waiting, in light and gloom,
With musket across his arm.


This poem is in the public domain.