THE ROSE 



BY WILLIAM BROWNE OF TAVISTOCK 



A Rose, as fair as ever saw the North, 



Grew in a little garden all alone ; 

 A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth, 



Nor fairer garden yet was never known : 

 The maidens danced about it morn and noon, 



And learned bards of it their ditties made ; 

 The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon 



Watered the root and kiss'd her pretty shade. 

 But well-a-day ! the gardener careless grew ; 



The maids and fairies both were kept away, 

 And in a drought the caterpillars threw 



Themselves upon the bud and every spray. 

 God shield the stock ! If heaven send no supplies, 

 The fairest blossom of the garden dies. 



