112 POETRY OF THE ROSE. 



Over the sands as it murmured, 

 Green sprung the grass by its side ; 



Round it a garden soon blossom'd, 

 Fed by its Kfe-giving tide. 



There, too, a wild vine up-started 



Under its shelter he dwelt : 

 Morning and evening, yet ever 



Low by the rose-bush he knelt. 

 So in the far waste forgotten. 



Still flowed his pure life along. 

 Soothed by the rose-blossom's fragrance. 



Charmed by the nightingale's song. 



THE FEAST OF ROSES. 



Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, 



With its Roses, the brightest that earth ever gave, 

 Its temples and grottos, and fountains as clear 

 As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave '.' 



But never yet, by night or day, 

 In dew of spring or summer's ray. 

 Did the sweet Valley shine so gay 

 As now it shines — all love and light, 

 Visions by day and feasts by night ! 

 A happier smile illumes each brow, 



With quicker spread each heart uncloses. 

 And all is extasy, — for now 



The Valley holds its Feast of Roses. 

 That joyous time, when pleasures pour 

 Profusely round, and in their shower 



