The Poetry o/ the Rose. 39 



Go, lovely Rose ! 

 Tell her that wastes her time and me, 



That now she knows, 

 When I resemble her to thee, 

 How sweet and fair she seemed to be. 



Tell her that's young, 

 And shuns to have her graces spied, 



That had'st thou sprung 

 In deserts where no men abide, 

 Thou must have uncommended died. 



Small is the worth 

 Of beauty from the light retired : 



Bid her come forth, 

 Suffer herself to be desired, 

 And not blush so to be admired. 



Then die ! that she, 

 The common fate of all things rare, 



May read in thee, 



How small a part of time they share 

 That are so wondrous sweet and fair. 



Edmund Waller. 



To this poem Henry Kirke White added the following stanza : 



Yet, though thou fade, 

 From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise ; 



And teach the maid 

 That goodness time's rude hand defies ; 

 That virtue lives when beauty dies. 



THE ROSE. 



The Rose had been washed, just washed in a shower, 



Which Mary to Anna conveyed ; 

 The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower, 



And weighed down its beautiful head. 



The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet, 



And it seemed, to a fanciful view, 

 To weep for the buds it had left with regret 



On the nourishing bush where it grew. 



I hastily seized it, unfit as it was 



For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned, 



And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! 

 I snapped it it fell to the ground. 



And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part, 



Some act by the delicate mind, 

 Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart 



Already to sorrow resigned. 



This elegant Rose, had I shaken it less, 



Might have bloomed with its owner a while ; 



And the tear that is wiped with a little address 

 May be followed, perhaps, with a smile. 



Cowpet. 



