74 POETRY OP THE ROSE. 



" It may be so," said the Eglantine ; 



" In a humble nook I dwell, 

 And what is passing among the great 



I cannot know so well. 



But they speak of me as the flower of love, 

 And that low-whispered name 



Is dearer to me, and my infant buds, 

 Than the loudest breath of fame." 



THE ROSE. 



How beautiful the Rose, as it unfolds its vernal dyes 

 And breathes a holy fragrance round, like incense from the skies ; 

 Casts to the breeze the sparkling dews that glitter on its stem, 

 And wreaths around its blushing brows a crystal diadem. 



But while the bee, with honey'd lip, salutes the vernal flower 

 That 's daily brightened by the sun and cherished by the shower, 

 The blast of desolation comes and sweeps it to the dust, 

 When all its beauties perish, as all mortal beauties must. 



Behold that gentle maiden, in the fair, fresh morn of youth ! 

 Upon her cheek the holy glow of innocence and truth ; 

 The sudden shock of sorrow strikes the blush no longer glows, 

 But verifies the fate of her fragile type, the Rose. 



Destruction comes alike to all, the meanest and the best, 

 ? T is oft the harbinger of wo, as suffering is to rest ; 

 Here beauty is the sure but smiling herald of decay, 

 As oftentimes the darkest night succeeds the brightest day. 



ROBERT GAUNTER. 



