THE ROSE. 211 



Nor England's lofty domes of glass 

 All filled with gorgeous flowers ; 

 Nor in our own wide prairie land, 

 With bud and bloom on every hand, 

 Is there a single flower that grows 

 Can vie in beauty with the Rose. 



Then seek, in southern, tropic air, 



And in our northern glade, 



And in the bright and gay parterre, 



And by the forest shade, 



Where every flower, and leaf, and tree, 



In graceful blending met. 



Presents new beauty to the eye, 



Of azure or of jet; 



And take each blossom, rich and rare. 



Which thou may'st find in beauty there ; 



Combine their color, form, and grace, 



And each unpleasant tint erase ; 



Then recreate the loveliest flower 



That e'er shed fragrance in a bower ; 



Let all its sweets and charms unclose; 



It cannot equal yet the Rose. 



s. B. p. 



