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Child of the Summer, charming Rose,

No longer in confinement lie; A rise to light, thy form disclose,

Rival the spangles of the sky.

The rains are gone, the storms are o’er,

Winter retires to make thee way : Come, then, thou sweetly-blushing flow'r,

Come, lovely stranger, come away.

The sun is dress'd in beaming smiles,

To give thy beauties to the day; Young zephyrs wait with gentle gales,

To fan thy bosom as they play.



The rose is fairest when 'tis budding new,
And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears ;
The rose is sweetest washed with morning dew,
And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears.
O, wilding Rose, whom fancy thus endears,
I bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave,
Emblem of hope and love through future years.



(Rosa muscosa.)

The Rosebud swelled in Sharon's vale,

And bloom'd in Eden beauteously, It drank the breath of southern gale,

It prov'd the warmth of summer sky; But o'er thy growth no summer rose, But drifted lay the untrodden snows.

The Rose of England beamed of yore,

In lily and in crimson hue;
Its bloom was dipped in human gore,

And sullied were its leaves to view;
Bnt thou hast spread amidst the storm,
In stainless purity thy form.

Sweet innocence ! by mercy fed,

With light, and warmth, and shelter meet; Whilst winter all his horrors sped,

In drifted snow and driving slect ; Thus have I seen, in maiden form, A beauteous nursling of the storm!

Sweet purity! no grosser breath

Of fervid winds and scorching skies,
Taught thee to spring from mother earth,

And, midst impurities arise;
But thou hast sprung a lovely thing,
Nor proved the genial breath of Spring.

Sweet messenger of triumph due,

O'er death in all his wintry pride, He cannot quench one living hue,

Which Heaven has destined to abide, Undimm'd ’midst Nature's dire decay, To blossom in eternal day.

I'll fix thee here beside my heart,

To calm its pulse, and check its play,
To heal its wounds, and soothe its smart,

And chase the rankling thought away;
For surely nought of earthly care,
May mar its peace when thou art there.


Ou, sooner shall the Rose of May

Mistake her own sweet nightingale,
And to some newer minstrel's lay,

Open her bosom's glowing veil *,
Than love shall ever doubt a tone,
A breath of the belovod one.


* A frequent image among Oriental poets.


The Angel of the Flowers, one day,
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay;
That spirit to whom charge is given,
To bathe young buds in dews of heaven;
Awaking from his light repose,
The Angel whispered to the Rose :-
“ 0, fondest object of my care,
Still fairest found, where all is fair;
For the sweet shade thou giv'st to me,
Ask what thou wilt, 'tis granted thee !"
" Then,” said the Rose, with deepened glow,
“ On me another grace bestow.”
The spirit paused in silent thought;-
What grace was there the flower had not ?
'Twas but a moment-o'er the Rose
A veil of moss, the Angel throws;
And robed in nature's simplest weed,
Could there a flower that Rose exceed?



In the garden of Venus a Moss-rose grew,

As sweet as a morning in May ;
But the sunbeams had drank all her exquisite dew,

And left her, alas ! to decay.
A Zephyr, who long in his covert had lain,

As the twilight advancing stole out,
He danced with the Gossamers over the plain,

And fanned them in ether about.
He saw the Rose drooping, as nearer he flew,

And skipped round her withering stem ;
The soft air of evening over her blew,

And decked her with many a gem.
As lovely again did appear the Moss-rose,

As when in her earlier bloom;
And to Zephyr she gave, as she sank to repose,
All the sweets of her luscious perfume.

T. B.

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