52 THE ROSE-BUD. 



But there's a sweeter flower than e'er 



Blushed on the rosy spray 

 A brighter star, a richer bloom 

 Than e'er did western heaven illume 

 At close of summer day. 



'Tis love, the last best gift of heaven ; 



Love gentle, holy, pure : 

 But tenderer than a dove's soft eye, 

 The searching sun, the open sky. 



She never could endure. 



Even human love will shrink from sigh 



Here in the coarse rude earth : 

 How then should rash intruding glance 

 Break in upon her sacred trance, 



Who boasts a heavenly birth ? 







So still and secret is her growth, 



Ever the truest heart, 

 Where deepest strikes her kindly root 

 For hope or joy, for flower or fruit, 



Least known its happy part. 



