70 POETRY OF THE ROSE. 



These buds for your bosoms, these blown for your rooms. 



Were nursed in warm smiles of July ; 

 These posies are all of the loveliest blooms : 



Come buy my nice Roses, come, buy. 



All fresh as the morning, and fragrant as May, 



And bright as a young lover's eye, 

 We gather'd them all at the dawning of day : 



Come, buy my fresh Roses, come buy. 



THE ROSE-BUD. 



When nature tries her finest touch, 



Weaving her vernal wreath, 

 Mark ye how close she veils her round, 

 Not to be traced by sight or sound, 

 Nor soil'd by ruder breath ? 



Whoever saw the earliest Rose 

 First open her sweet breast ? 

 Or, when the summer sun goes down, 

 The first, soft star in evening's crown 

 Light up her gleaming crest ? 



Fondly we seek the dawning bloom 



On features wan and fair ; 

 The gazing eye no change can trace. 

 But look away a little space, 



Then turn, and lo ! 'tis there. 



