POETRY OF THE ROSE. 65 



I love the Rose — what time the smihng year 

 Leads forth in summer glory Flora's train ; 

 When orchard, garden, woodland, bower and plain, 



Dress'd in their richest garments all appear ; 



Then — then I love the humblest flower that blows, 



But chief of all the tribe — I love the Rose. 



Bernard Barton. 



THE WILD ROSE. 



Welcome ! oh, welcome once again. 



Thou dearest of all the lausrliing flowers 

 That open their odorous bosoms when 



The summer birds are in their bowers ! 

 There is none that I love, sweet gem, like thee, 



So mildly through the green leaves stealing ; 

 For I seem, as thy delicate flush I see. 

 In the dewy haunts of my youth to be ; 



And a gladsome youthful feeling 

 Springs to my heart, that not all the glare 

 Of the blossoming East could awaken there. 



Glorious and glad it were, no doubt, 



Over the billowy sea to sail, 

 And to find every spot of the wide world out, 



So bright and fair in the minstrel's tale : 

 To roam by old Tiber's classic tide 



At eve, when round the gushing waters 

 Shades of renown will seem to glide. 

 And amid the myrtle's flowery pride 



Walk Italy's soft daughters : 

 Or to see Spain's haughtier damsels rove 

 Through the delicious orange grove. 



