POETRY OF THE ROSE. 73 



TO THE SWEET-BRIER. 



Our sweet autumnal western-scented wind 

 Robs of its odors none so sweet a flower, 

 In all the blooming waste it left behind, 

 As that the sweet-brier yields it ; and the shower 

 Wets not a rose that buds in beauty's bower 

 One half so lovely ; yet it grows along 

 The poor girl's pathway by the poor man's door. 

 Such are the simple folks it dwells among ; 

 And humble as the bud, so humble be the song. 



I love it, for it takes its untouch'd stand 

 Not in the vase that sculptors decorate ; 

 Its sweetness all is of my native land ; 

 And e'en its fragrant leaf has not its mate 

 Among the perfumes which the rich and great 

 Bring from the odors of the spicy East. 

 You love your flowers. and plants, and will you hate 

 The little four-leaved Rose that I love best, 

 That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest ? 



J. G. C. BRAINARD. 



THE TULIP AND EGLANTINE, 



The Tulip called to the Eglantine ; 



" Good neighbor, I hope you see 

 How the throngs that visit the garden come 



To pay their respects to me. 



" The florist admires my elegant robe, 



And praises its rainbow ray, 

 Till it seems as if, through his raptured eyes 



He was gazing his soul away." 



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