210 PARSONS ON THE ROSE. 



The Rose is still most rich and sweet, 



And wears the crown for beauty meet. 



I have basked in the beauty of southern climes, 



And wandered through groves of palm and limes, 



Where dark-eyed Spanish girls 



Would linger in their myrtle bowers, — 



With garlands rich of orange flowers 



Would weave then- raven curls. 



And fasten 'mid their lustrous hair 



The fire-fly's glittering light. 



Which, brighter than tlie diamond's sheen, 



Bursts on the dazzled sight. 



But yet I would not give for these. 



Produce of tropic sun and breeze — 



For all the flowers in beauty there — 



The Rose our northern maidens wear. 



I've crossed the Andes' lofty height. 



Its mountains, forest-crowned, 



And 'mong the devious, tangled paths 



Of tropic thickets wound. 



In fair Aragua's fertile vale. 



In Hayti's fields of bloom, 



I've marked the prickly Cactus tribe 



Its richest tints assume. 



I've passed through fragrant Coflfee groves, 



By the tall Bucara tree, 



And by the Cocoa and the Palm, 



With the Trupeol warbling free ; ' 



Upon the flower-clad turf, and where 



The rich Orchidia climbs in air. 



But not 'raid all this gorgeous bloom. 



By tropic climate Avove, 



Nor Florida's rich Magnolia 



And fragrant Orange grove ; 



Nor the graceful vines of southern France, 



Nor Italy's fair bowers. 



