94 POETRY OF THE ROSE. 



The wild boy shouted — " I'll pluck thee, rose. 



Little rose vainly hiding 

 Among the boughs ;" but the little rose spoke — 

 " I'll prick thee, and that will prove no joke ; 

 Unhurt, O then will I mock thy woes, 



Whilst thou thy folly art chiding." 

 Little rose, little rose, little red rose, 



Among the bushes hiding ! 



But the rude boy laid his hands on the flower. 



The little rose vainly hiding 

 Among the boughs ; Oh, the rose was caught ! 

 But it turned again, and pricked and fought. 

 And left with its spoiler a smart from that hour, 



A pain for ever abiding ; 



Little rose, little rose, little red rose. 



Among the bushes hiding ! 



From Goethe. 



THE VOICE OF THE FLOWERS. 



Blossoms that lowly bend. 

 Shutting your leaves from evening's chilly dew, 

 While your rich odors heavily ascend, 



The flitting winds to woo ! 



I walk at silent eve. 

 When scarce a breath is in the garden bowers, 

 And many a vision and wild fancy weave, 



'Midst ye, ye lovely flowers : 



Beneath the cool green boughs, 

 And perfumed bells of the fresh-blossom'd lime, 

 That stoop and gently touch my feverish brow. 



Fresh in their summer prime ; 



