113 FLORA AND THALIA. 



TO MY BELOVED DAUGHTER. 



The Rose that hails the morning, 



Arrayed in all its sweets, 

 Its mossy couch adorning, 



The sun enamoured meets; 

 Yet when the warm beam rushes, 



Where hid, in gloom, it lies, 

 O'erwhelmed with glowing blushes, 



The hapless victim dies. 



Sweet maid, this Rose discovers 



How frail is beauty's doom, 

 When flattery round it hovers, 



To spoil its proudest bloom : 

 Then shun each gaudy pleasure, 



That lures thee on to fade, 

 And guard thy beauty's treasure 



To decorate a shade. ' 



MARY ROBIXSON. 



ON THE ROSE. 



Ye violets, that fii'st appear. 



By. your pure purple mantles known, 



Like the proud virgins of the year, 

 As if the spring were all your own — 

 What are ye when the Rose is blown T 



SIR H. WOTTON. 



