MARCH. 77 



Peeps from lier lowly bower, scarce recognised 



Amid its circling verdure, waiting there 



The morning splendour and the dews of eve. 



Quail not, thou timid one, nor shun the glance 



That joys to dwell upon thee ! Virtue knows 



No fear ; and pure, unspotted Innocence 



May stand erect throughout the sultry hour, 



Despite the burden and the heat of day. 



Nor less your beauty, unpretending flowers, 



"Wee, modest, crimson-tipped," that deck the meads 



With infinite profusion, whispering low 



Of gales all softness and of hours all sun ! 



Humble although ye be, yet are ye dear 



To every heart : in every ear your name, 



Lisped by the prattling tongue of infancy, 



Soundeth " familiar as a household word." 



Ay, little children love you well ; and that 



Which doth attract their love must ever be 



A richly cherished object. Poets too — 



Whose souls are oftentimes more near akin 



To those of children than the world doth dream — 



Have marked your simple graces, nor withheld 



The tribute of their numbers. Even so 



Your fame approaches to the pinnacle 



Of immortality ; for ye did prompt 



One of the sweetest of those deathless songs 



Warbled by Caledonia's peasant-bard. 



But though, amid these ornaments of earth. 



Each boasts its separate charm, none may presume 



To rival the attractions of the KOSE. 



Magnificence and grace inelFable 



Pervade her form ; therewith she mingles hues 



Of every shade denoting life and love 



And healthful animation ; — from the pure 



Transparent white abiding on the brow 



Of thoughtful maiden — to the delicate blush 



Suffusing her pale cheek, enkindled there 



From that mysterious flame which permeates 



The subtil spirit, — to the ruddier tinge. 



Charged from the liquid fount of very life, 



Incessant mantling on her glowing lips, — 



Or to the more intensely crimson dye 



Of the warm current ever gushing on 



Through the deep channels of her throbbing heart. 



Nor to the eye alone commends herself 



The Queen of Flowers. The concentrated odours 



Of all her subject race, combined in one 



Impalpable, amalgamated essence. 



Would fail to match the fragrance she exhales 



With boundless prodigality, while yet 



Her store decreaseth never. In the climes 



Of the delicious East, where the fair Rose 



Receives no stinted homage, bards have striven 



To grace her beauties with an added charm : 



Thus they have feigned her as the chosen bride 



Of the melodious nightingale, who chants 



His serenade, not for the listening stars. 



But for her ear alone. From such conceits 



Roves Fancy to traditions of old time — 



Fantastic yet poetic — of the change 



Of youths and nymphs to trees and flowers, all bearing 



Some semblance of their pre-existing state 



