POETRY OF THE ROSE. 79 



O, I love the gay lieart's-ease and violet blue, 



The sun-flower and blue-bell, each flowret that blows ; 



The fir tree, the pine tree, acacia, and yew, 



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



Yes, I love my moss-rose, for it ne'er had a thorn, 

 'T is the type of life's pleasures, unmixed with its woes ; 

 'T is more gay and more bright than the opening morn — 

 Yes, all things must yield to my pretty moss-rose. 



Anon. 



THE MOSS-ROSE. 



Mossy rose on mossy stone. 

 Flowering 'mid the ruins lone, 

 I have learnt, beholding thee. 

 Youth and Age may well agree. 



Baby germ of freshest hue, 

 Out of ruin issuing new ; 

 Moss a long laborious growth. 

 And one stalk supporting both : 



Thus may still, while fades the past, 

 Life come forth again as fast ; 

 Happy if the relics sere 

 Deck a cradle, not a bier. 



Tear the garb, the spirit flies. 

 And the heart, unshelter'd, dies ; 

 Kill within the nursling flower'. 

 Scarce the green survives an hour. 



