POETRY OF THE ROSE. 81 



And Cupid stooping-, too, to sip, 



The angry insect stung his lip — 



And gushing from the ambrosial cell, 



One blight drop on my bosom fell ! 



Weeping-, to his mother he 



Told the tale of treachery ; 



And she, her vengeful boy to please, 



Strung his bow "with captive bees ; 



But placed upon my slender stem 



The poisoned sting she plucked from them : 



And none since that eventful morn 



Have found the flower without a thorn. 



FLOWER FANTASIES. 



Oh, there is music to the spirit's ear 



In every sigh 

 Heaved by the Rose's bosom to the air 



That winnows by ; 

 And there is poetry in every leaf, 

 Whose blush speaks pleasure, or whose tears tell 



There is romance in every stem that bends 



In motion soft 

 Beneath the wind that rustles in the tall 



Tree-tops aloft. 

 And 'mid their branches whistlingly doth blow. 

 While it but fans the flowers that sleep below. 



The fragrance is the spirit of the flower, 



E'en as the soul 

 Is our ethereal portion. We can ne'er 



Hold or control 

 One more than other. Passing sweet must be 

 The visions^ gentle things, that visit ye ! 



