POETRY OF THE ROSE. 67 



And, more than all, the sweet, wild Rose, 



Starring each bush in lanes and glades, 

 Smiles in each lovelier tint that glows 



On the cheeks of England's peerless maids : 

 Some, with a deeper, fuller hue. 



Like lass o'er the foamy milk-pail chanting ; 

 Lighter are some, and gemm'd with dew, 

 Like ladies whose lovers all are true, 



And nought on earth have wanting ; 

 But their eyes on beauteous scenes are bent, 

 That own them their chief ornament. 



And some — alas ! that a British maid 



In beauty should ever resemble them ! — 

 Like damsel heart-broken and betray'd, 



Droop softly on their slender stem : 

 Hid in the wild-wood's deepest shade, 



Flowers of such snowy loveliness, 

 That almost without light fancy's aid, 

 Seem they for touching emblems made, 



Of beauty smitten by distress. 

 But enough — the wild Rose is the queen of June. 

 When flowers are abroad and birds in tune. 



Mary Howitt. 



THE WILD ROSE. 



Gorgeous and brigjit is the garden, I ween. 

 Where thousand-leaved roses are richest in sheen ; 

 But, lady, the plain little wild Rose for me. 

 That blooms in the shade of the tall forest-tree. 



The proud multiflora, so vain of its charms, 



Flaunts wide in the sunshine its broad-spreading arms 



