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POETRY OF THE ROSE. 



When a frail and drooping- form drew near, 

 And strew'd fresh roses beside the bier ; 

 Murmuring, as each pale offering fell, 

 " Brother ! thou lovedst them passing well !" 



J. H. S. 



FROM SHAKSPEARE. 



Emil. Of all flowers, 

 Methinks the Rose is best. 



Sei'v. Why, gentle madam ? 



Emil. 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 briars. 



O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem 

 By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! 



The Rose looks fair ; but fairer we it deem 

 For that sweet odor which doth in it live. 



The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye 

 As the porfumed tincture of 'the Roses ; 



Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly, 

 When summer's breath their masked buds discloses ; 



But, for their virtue only is their show. 

 They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade ; 



Die to themselves. Sweet Roses do not so ; 

 Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made : 



And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,. 



When that shall fade, my verse distils your truth. 



