POETRY OF THE ROSE. 69 



The warm light gathereth in the sky, 



The bland air stirreth round, 

 And yet the child is lingering by, 



Half-kneeling on the ground : 



For broader grew that crimson streak, 



Back folds the leaf of green, 

 And he in wonder, still and meek, 



Watch'd all its opening sheen, 

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"'Tis done, 'tis done !" at length he cried, 



With glad amazement wild ; 

 The Rose, in new-created pride, 



Had opened for the child. 



O, had we hearts like thine, sweet boy, 



To watch creative power, 

 We, too, should thrill with kindred joy 



At every opening flower. 



E. Oakes Smith. 



THE ROSE GIRL'S SONG. 



Come, buy my sweet Roses, ye fair ladies all, 



And bless my poor mother and I ; 

 Nor fresher, nor sweeter, boasts basket or stall : 



Come, buy my sweet Roses, come, buy. 



Here are scarlet, and damask, and delicate white, 

 And some with a blush's sweet dye ; 



With beautiful moss'd ones, the lover's delight : 

 Come, buy my fine Roses, come, buy. 



