THE ROSE-BUD. 



BY EEEBLE. 



WHEN Nature tries her finest touch, 



Weaving her vernal wreath, 

 Mark ye, how close she veils her round, 

 Not to be traced by sight or sound, 

 Nor soiled by ruder breath ! 



Who ever saw the earliest rose 

 First open her sweet breast ? 

 Or, when the summer sun goes down, 

 The first soft star in evening's crown 

 Light up her gleaming crest ? 





 Fondly we seek the dawning bloom 



On features wan and fair 

 The gazing eye no change can trace, 

 But look away a little space, 



Then turn, and lo ! 'tis there. 



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