POETRY OF THE ROSE. H9 



Far from the winters of the west, 

 By every breeze and season blest, 

 Returns the sweets by Nature given, 

 In softest incense back to heaven, 

 And grateful yields that smiling sky 

 Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 



Lord Byron. 



A single Rose is shedding there 



Its lonely lustre, meek and pale : 

 It looks as planted by despair — 



So white, so faint, the slightest gale 

 Might whirl the leaves on high ; 



And yet, though storms and blasts assail, 

 And hands more rude than wintry sky, 



May wring it from the stem ia vain — 



To-morrow sees it bloom again ! 

 The stalk some spirit quickly rears. 

 And waters with celestial tears ; 



For well may maids of Helle deem 

 That this can be no earthly flower. 

 Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, 

 And buds unshelter'd by a bower ; 

 Nor droops though Spring refuse her shower, 



Nor woos the Summer beam : 

 To it the livelong night there sings 

 A bird unseen, but not remote ; 

 Invisible his airy wings. 

 But soft as harp that Houri strings. 

 His lone, entrancing note. 



Bride of Abydos. 



Wound in the hedge-rows' oaken boughs 

 The woodbine's tassels float in air, 

 And, blushing, the uncultured Rose 

 Hangs high her beauteous blossorfis there. 



Smith. 



