54 THE ROSE-BUD. 



He could not trust his melting soul 



But in his Maker's sight 

 Then why should gentle hearts and true 

 Bare to the rude world's withering view 

 Their treasures of delight ? 



No let the dainty rose awhile 



Her bashful fragrance hide 

 Rend not her silken veil too soon, 

 But leave her, in her own soft noon, 

 To flourish and abide. 



THE SUNFLOWER. 



BY THOMPSON. 



Who can unpitying see the flow'ry race 

 Shed by the moon their new flush'd bloom resign 

 Before the parching beam ? so fades the face, 

 When fevers revel through their azure veins. 

 But one the lofty follower of the sun, 

 Sad when he sits, shuts up her yellow leaves, 

 Drooping all night, and when he warm returns 

 Points her enamour'd bosom to his ray. 



