POETRY OF THE ROSE. 107 



REMEMBRANCE. 



I turn to the cot where roses bloom 



In beauty rare, and with rich perfume ; 



Where they raise their heads at dawning light, 



Sparkling with gems of the dewy night ; 



And I think of the days, when a merry boy, 



I pluck'd the fairest with gleesome joy, 



And wished how vain ! that its blushing hues 



Might never change ;' but, like early dews, 



They faded, while yet with care 'twas prest 



As a matchless rose to my youthful breast. 



My wish was cross'd, and the tear-drop fell 



On the faded rose I loved so well. 



It taught my heart, what I since have found, 



That the dearest thing to affection bound, 



Like the sweet rose pluck'd 'neath the summer sky, 



Is sure to wither, and fade, and die. 



FROM "FLORA'S PARTY." 



There were Myrtles and Roses from garden and plain, 



And Venus's Fly-Trap they brought in their train ; 



So the beaux cluster'd round them, they hardly knew why, 



At each smile of the lip, or each glance of the eye. 



Madame Damask a robe had from Paris brought out, 



The envy of all who attended the rout ; 



Its drapery was folded her form to adorn, 



And clasp'd at the breast with a diamond-set thorn. 



Yet she, quite unconscious, 't would seem, of the grace 



That enchanted all groups who frequented the place, 



Introduced, with the sweetest of words in her mouth, 



The young Multiflora her guest from the south ! 



