The Poetry of the Rose, 47 



ON THE DOG-ROSE. 



'Tis the Rose of the desert 



So lonely and wild, 

 On the green leaf of freedom 



Its infancy smiled. 

 In the languish of beauty 



It buds o'er the thorn, 

 And its leaves are all wet 



With the bright dews of morn. 



Yet 'tis better thou fair one 



To dwell thus alone. 

 Than recline on a bosom 



Less pure than thine own. 

 Thy form is too lovely 



To be torn from its stem, 

 And thy breath is too sweet 



For the children of men. 



Bloom on then in secret, 



Sweet child of the waste ! 

 Where no lip of profaner 



Thy fragrance shall taste. 

 Bloom on where no footstep 



Unhallowed hath trod, 

 And give all thy blushes 



And sweets to thy god. 



From the "-Little English Flora," by G. W. Francis. 



