68 POETRY OF THE ROSE. 



But give me the wild Rose, ashamed to be seen, 

 That blushes and hides in its mantle of green. 



The Rose of the garden may boast its perfume, 

 And true it smells sAveetly while lingers its bloom ; 

 But give me the Eglantine, blushing alone, 

 That still scents the gale when its blossoms are gone. 



Let others encircle their brows with the flowers 

 By culture made bright for a few fleeting hours ; 

 Far dearer to me is the wild flower that grows 

 Unseen, by the brook where in shadow it flows. 



There hie, gentle maid, where the wild blossoms grow, 

 And cull me a wreath to encircle my brow : 

 One sweet little Rose for my bosom shall be ; 

 And, lady, that sweet httle Rose shall be thee. 



THE CHILD AND THE ROSE. 



When stirring bud and songful bird 

 Brought gladness to the earth, 



And spring-time voices first were heard 

 In low, sweet sounds of mirth ; 



A little child, with pleasant eyes, 

 Reclined in tranquil thought. 



And, half communing wit^i the skies. 

 His pretty fancies wrought. 



He turned where, cased in robe of green, 



A rose-bud met his eye. 

 And one faint streak the leaves between, 



Rich in its crimson dye. 



