POETRY OF THE ROSE. 



But not the richest tropic blooms, 

 Cull'd from the fairest climes on earth, 

 Could vie with nature's fairest flower, 

 Of Iran's sun-clad soil the birth ; 

 Though clothed in rich and gorgeous hues, 

 They bore no charm of fragrance there, 

 In form and color, sweetness, grace 

 None with the Rose could once compare : 

 She bore the palm in Flora's eyes, 

 Who to the Rose adjudged the prize. 



S. B. P. 



A FABLE, 



Once, in the heart of a desert, 



Blossomed a rose-bush unseen : 

 Only the sands were around it ; 



Nought but its leaf was there green. 

 Ever, at evening and morning, 



Trickled its flowers with dew ; 

 And then, in light circles, around it 



Fondly a nightingale flew. 



Over the sands strayed a pilgrim, 



Lost in the midst of the wild, 

 When on his faint eyes, at evening, 



Sweetly the rose-blossom smiled ; 

 Sweetly the nightingale wooed him, 



Under its shade to repose ; 

 There his song charmed him to slumber. 



Wet by the dew of the Rose. 



Freshly he rose in the morning 

 Dug in the sand by the flower, 



And a bright fountain upsparkled, 

 Welling with bubbling shower : 



