POETRY OF THE ROSE. 123 



I wish it were a rose-bud now, 



I wish 'twere only hiding yet, 

 With timid grace its blushing brow, 



Behind the green that shelter'd it. 

 I had not written were it so ; 

 Why would the silly rose-bud blow ? 



Frances S. Osgood. 



THE ROSE. 



Though many a flower has graced the lay 



And formed the theme of poets' song — 



Has gently flowed in Grecian phrase, 



Or tripped upon the Roman's tongue ; 



Yet, still, in ancient song and story 



The Rose shines forth in beauty rare. 



Enveloped with a halo bright, 



And made so glorious, rich, and fair, 



That all the flowers must yield their seat, 



And lay their beauty at its feet. 



Anacreon sang its primal birth, 



Old Homer praised its form of grace, 



Catullus boasted of its charms, 



Horace, its richly tinted face : 



In fair Italia glowing words, 



Tasso and Metastasio sang ; 



And 'mong the groves of far Cathay 



The Persian Hafiz' accents rang. 



The flowing tones of old Castile, 



From Camoens and Sannazar, 



And in our own pure English toi^gue 



It was the signal note of war ; 



In many a poet's verse its beauty shone, — 



Milton, the Bard of Avon and the Great Unknown. 



Hiffh valued were its flowers briffht 



