POETRY OF THE ROSE. 71 



But there's a sweeter flower than e'er 



Bhish'd on the rosy spray — 

 A brighter star, a richer bloom, 

 Than e'er did western heaven illume • 



At close of summer day. 



'T is love, the last best gift of heaven — 



Love gentle, holy, pure ; 

 But tenderer than a dove's soft eye : 

 The searching sun, the open sky, 



She never could endure. 



Even human love will shrink from sight 



Here in the coarse, rude earth : 

 How then should rash, intruding glance 

 Break in upon her sacred trance, 



Who boasts a heavenly birth ! 



So still and secret is her growth, 



Ever the truest heart, 

 Where deepest strikes her kindly root 

 For hope or joy, for flower or fruit. 



Least known its happy part. 



God only and good angels look 



Behind the blissful screen — 

 As when, triumphant o'er his woes, 

 The Son of God by moonlight rose, 



By all but heaven unseen : 



As when the Holy Maid beheld 



Her risen Son and Lord : 

 Thought has not colors half so fair 

 That she to paint that hour may dare, 



In silence best adored. 



