THE ROSE. 209 



That all the flowers must yield their scat, 



And lay their beauty at its feet. 



Anacreon sang its primal birth, 



Old Homer praised its form of grace, 



Catullus boasted of its charms, 



Horace, its richly tinted face : 



In fair Italia's glowing words, 



Tasso and Metastasio sang ; 



And 'mong the groves of far Cathay 



The Persian Haiiz' accents rang. 



The flowing tones of old Castile, 



From Camoens and Sannazar, 



And in our own pure English tongue 



It was the signal note of war ; 



In many a poet's verse its beauty shone, — 



Milton, the Bard of Avon, and the Great Unknown. 



High valued were its flowers bright 



By Helle's maids of yore ; 



It graced their scenes of festive glee 



In the classic vales of Arcady, 



And all the honors bore ; 



And shed its fragrance on the breeze 



That swept through academic grove, 



Where sagos ^^•ith their scholars rove — 



The land of Pericles. 



In the sunny clime of Suristan, 



On India's burning shore, 



Amid the Brahmin's sacred shades. 



Or in the wreaths that Persian maids. 



Sporting in bright and sunny glades 



In graceful beauty wore ; 



Upon the banks of Jordan's stream 



Still flowing softly on. 



Where Judah's maidens once did lave, 



Or where the lofty cedars wave, 



On time-worn Lebanon ; 



