POETRY OF THE ROSE. 109 



And from my fervent soul went up — 



" O Father ! list to me ! 

 Let to his soul all thoughts of death 



Like those sweet rose-buds be !" 



O let us, with the youthful dead, 



Unite the budding flowers, 

 That while we weep the faded eye 



And love's entrancing flowers, 

 He on the beautiful may gaze 



Beyond the changes here, 

 And let the smiles of angels play 



Through every falling tear : 



Bright rainbow of the Christian sky, 



That tends to hallow earth. 

 And wake in storm-bound souls again 



The music of its mirth. 

 And give to thought a holy way 



To tread unto the skies — 

 To see the joy of ransom'd souls 



With hope-anointed eyes. 



THE ROSE. 



Ah, see the virgin Rose ! how sweetly she 

 Doth first peep forth with bashful modesty, 



That fairer seems the less ye see her way ! 



Lo ! see soon after, how more bold and free 



Her bared bosom she doth broad display ! 



Lo ! see soon after, how she fades away and falls ! 



Spenser. 



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