72 POETRY OF THE ROSE. 



The gracious dove, that brought from heaven 



The earnest of our bliss, 

 Of many a chosen witness' telling, 

 On many a happy vision dwelling, 



Sings not a note of this. 



So, truest image of the Christ, 



Old Israel's long-lost son. 

 What time, with sweet forgiving cheer, 

 He called his conscious brethren near, 



Would weep with them alone. 



He could not trust his melting soul 



But in his Maker's sight ; 

 Then why should gentle hearts and true 

 Bare to the rude world's withering view 



Their treasures of delight? 



No — let the dainty Rose awhile 

 Her bashful fragrance hide — 

 Rend not her silken veil too soon. 

 But leave her, in her own soft noon. 

 To flourish and abide. 



Kebi.e. 



THE SUMMER ROSE. 



O, nowhere blooms so bright the Summer Rose, 

 As where youth cropt it from the valley's breast ; 



O, nowhere are the downs so soft as those 

 That pillow'd infancy's unbroken rest. 



From the Danish op Apzelius. 



