64 POETRY OF THE ROSE. 



I love the Rose that simple, single one, 

 Which decks the hedges delicately white ; 

 Or, blushing like a maiden's cheek so slight, 

 The eye looks anxious lest the tint be gone 

 Ere it hath gazed enough, or ere the spray 

 Can from the parent tree be slipp'd away. 



I love the Rose that monthly one, which blooms 

 In cottage windows ; which is tended there 

 With maiden constancy, by maiden care ; 



Which through all seasons decorates the rooms, 



Like her whose opening charms appear to be 



A lovely blowing bud on beauty's tree. 



I love the Rose nor least when I perceive 

 The thistle's pride in Scotia's t>onnet worn ; 

 The shamrock green on Erin's banner borne : 

 O, then imagination loves to weave 

 Of England's emblem flowers a garland meet 

 To place on beauty's brow, or lay at valor's feet. 



I love the Rose its presence to my eye 



Like beauty, youth, like hope and health appears, 

 Recalling the gay dreams of early years : 



And when I smell its fragrance wafted by, 



I think of virtue, love, benevolence, 



Which moral perfumes round life's paths dispense. 



I love the Rose for bards have ever loved 



The queen of flowers the flower of beauty's queen, 

 When in the hedgerow or the garden seen, 



Or pluck'd and proffer'd, by some friend belov'd, 



To gentle lady, and by her caress'd, 



Then braided with her hair, or worn upon her breast. 



