POETRY OF THE ROSE. 101 



Till, planted in that realm of rest 



Where Roses never die, 

 Amid the gardens of the blest. 



Beneath a stormless sky, 

 You flower afresh, like Aaron's rod, 

 That blossom'd at the sight of God. 



MONTGOMERY. 



THE AUTUMN ROSES. 



" My brother had a beautiful Rose-tree, standing directly under the window of 

 his study, which he cultivated with great care, and which rewarded him every 

 Spring with a large number of the loveliest white roses I ever saw. On the Spring, 

 however, preceding his decease, it did not blossom ; but in the Fall, when every- 

 thing else was going to decay, how were we surprised to behold this sweet tree 

 drooping beneath an unusual quantity of snow-white flowers. We did not allow 

 one of them to be plucked until my poor brother's death, when we strewed them 

 over his grave." 



Gently looked the morning sun 



Into a quiet room ; 

 Softly, through a broken pane, 



Stole a rich perfume : 

 " Is not that the Rose's scent ?" 



A dying sufferer said ; 

 And a fair one o'er his pillow leant, 



And raised his feeble head, 

 Whispering, the while, a few low words 

 But they soothed not the spirit's vibrating chords ; 

 For the pallid cheek of the student flushed, 

 And a flood of tears from his dim eyes gushed. 



" Roses on my beauteous tree ? 



Roses, didst thou say ? 

 Roses, when all sights and sounds 



Whisper but decay ? 



