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But I have left that comely cot,

Where blossoms now my favourite tree!
And I possess an ampler spot,

Which boasts of more variety,
And more enraptures all but me.

ALTERED FROM PARK'S FILBERT TREE,

PROVENCE, OR HUNDRED-LEAVED ROSE.

(Rosa centifolia.)

This elegant species of rose-bush, a native of Europe, was first cultivated in England in the year 1596. According to the Hortus Cantabrigiensis, there are fifty-eight species of the Rose, of which the moss rose is perhaps the most beautiful. This species rises in our English gardens from four to five feet; but in Persia it grows to much greater perfection. Many of the roses, though so much cultivated in our gardens, are far from being distinctly characterised ; those denominated varieties are extremely numerous, and often permanently uniform ; and the specific differences are, in many respects, so inadequate to the purpose of satisfactory discrimination, that it becomes difficult to say which are varieties only.

In no part of the world is the rose so much esteemed as in Persia, where they hold a festival in honour of this flower.

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Rose! thou art the sweetest flower
That ever drank the amber shower ;
Rose! thou art the fondest child
Of dimpled Spring, and wood-nymph wild :
Even the gods, who walk the sky,
Are amorous of thy scented sigh.

MOORE.

The rosa canina, or dog rose, which adorns our hedges in the summer, bears the fruit known by the name of heps, of which the well-known conserve is made.

Class, ICOSANDRIA.

Order, POLYGYNIA.

LOVE IN A ROSE-BUD.

A FRAGMENT.

As late each flower that sweetest blows

I plucked, the garden pride ;
Within the petals of a Rose

A sleeping Love I spied.

Around his brows a beamy wreath

Of many a lucent hue;
All purple glowed his cheek beneath,

Inebriate with dew.

COLERIDGE.

A THOUGHT OF THE ROSE.

Rosa, Rosa ! perche sulla tua beltà,
Sempre è scritta questa parola—Morte ?

How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom,

Rose ! ever wearing beauty for thy dower! The bridal day—the festival—the tomb

Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flower!

Therefore, with thy soft breath, come floating by

A thousand images of love and grief; Dreams, filled with tokens of mortality;

Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief.

Not such thy spell o'er those who hailed thee first,

In the clear light of Eden's golden day ; There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst,

Linked with no dim remembrance of decay.

Rose! for the banquet gathered, and the bier ;

Rose! coloured now by human hope or pain; Surely where death is not, nor change, nor fear, Yet we may meet thee, joy's own flower, again.

MRS. HEMANS.

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