The Poetry of the Rose. 41 



The Rose is fairest when 'tis budding new, 

 And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears ; 

 The Rose is sweetest washed with morning dew, 

 And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears. 

 O, wilding Rose, whom fancy thus endears, 

 I bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave, 

 Emblem of hope and love through future years ! 



Sir Walter Scott ("Lady of the Lake," Canto IV. ) 



The Rose, the sweetly blooming Rose, 



Ere from the tree it's torn, 

 Is like the charm which beauty shows 



In life's exulting morn ! 



But oh ! how soon its sweets are gone, 



How soon it withering lies ! 

 So when the eve of life comes on, 



Sweet beauty fades and dies. 



Then since the fairest form that's made 



Soon withering we shall find ; 

 Let us possess what ne'er shall fade 



The beauties of the mind. 



C. /. Fox. 



" Begone, thou fond presumptuous elf," 



Exclaimed a thundering voice, 

 " Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self 



Between me and my choice ! " 

 A small cascade fresh swoln with snows 

 Thus threatened a poor briar Rose, 



That, all bespattered with his foam, 

 And dancing high, and dancing low, 

 Was living, as a child might know, 

 In an unhappy home. 



Wordsworth. 



THE ROSE. 



As late each flower that sweetest blows, 

 I pluck'd the garden's pride ! 



Within the petals of a Rose 

 A sleeping love I spied. 



Around his brows a beaming wreath, 



Of many a lucid hue ; 

 All purple glow'd his cheek beneath, 



Inebriate with dew. 



I softly seiz'd th' unguarded power, 



Nor scar'd his balmy rest, 

 And plac'd him cag'd within the flower 



On spotless Sarah's breast. 



But when, unweening of the guile, 



Awoke the pris'ner sweet, 

 He struggled to escape awhile, 



And stamp'd his fairy feet. 



