POETRY OF THE ROSE. 



Yes ! my fancy sees thee 



In that light disclose, 

 And its dream thus frees thee 

 From the midst of woes, 

 Darkening thine earthly bowers, O bridal, royal Rose. 



Felicia Hemans. 



THE ROSE. 



Of all flowers, 



Methinks a Rose is best 



It is the very emblem of a maid ; 

 For when the west wind courts her gently. 

 How modestly she blows and paints the sun 

 With her chaste blushes ! When the north comes 



near her, 

 Rude and impatient, then, like chastity. 

 She locks her beauties in her bud again. 

 And leaves him to base briers. 



Beaumont and Fletcher. 



THE MOSS ROSE 



O, I love the sweet-blooming, the pretty moss-rose, 

 'T is the type of true pleasure and perfected joy ; 

 O, I envy each insect that dares to repose 

 'Midst its leaves, or among its soft beauties to toy. 



I love the sweet lily, so pure and so pale. 

 With a bosom as fair as the new fallen snows ; 

 Her luxuriant odors she spreads through the vale, 

 Yet e'en she must yield to my pretty moss-rose. 



