THE MOSS ROSE. 



FROM THK GERMAN. 

 BY fr. B. 



THE Angel of the flowers one day, 



Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay ; 



That spirit to whom charge is given 



To bathe young buds in dews of Heaven ; 



Awaking from his light repose, 



The angel whispered to the rose : 



" Oh, fondest object of my care, 



Still fairest found, where all is fair ; 



For the sweet shade thou giv'st to me, 



Ask what thou wilt, 'tis granted thee !" 



" Then," said the rose, with deepen'd glow, 



" On me another grace bestow." 



The spirit paused in silent thought : 



What grace was there the flower had not? 



'Twas but a moment o'er the rose 

 A veil of moss the angel throws ; 

 Anil robed in Nature's simplest weed, 

 Could there a flower that rose exceed ? 



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