POETRY OF THE ROSE. 113 



Hearts open, like the Season's Rose, 

 The flow'ret of a hundred leaves, 



Expanding while the dew-fall flows, 

 And every leaf its balm receives ! 



# * * * # 

 A thousand restless torches play'd 

 Through every grove and island shade ; 

 A thousand sparkling lamps were set 

 On every dome and minaret ; 



And fields and pathways, far and near, 

 Were lighted by a blaze so clear, 

 That you could see, in wandering round, 

 The smallest rose-leaf on the ground. 



* * * * * 

 And all exclaim'd, to all they met, 



That never did the summer bring 



So gay a feast of Roses yet ; 

 The moon had never shed a light 



So clear as that which bless'd them there ; 

 The Roses ne'er shone half so bright, 



Nor they themselves look'd half so fair. 

 And what a wilderness of flowers ! 

 It seem'd as though from all the bowers 

 And fairest fields of all the year, 

 The mingled spoil were scatter'd here. 

 The Lake, too, like a garden breathes, 



With the rich buds that o'er it lie, 

 As if a shower of fairy wreaths 



Had fall'n upon it from the sky ! 

 And then the sounds of joy the beat 

 Of tabors and of dancing feet ; 

 The merry laughter echoing 

 From gardens, where the silken swing 

 Wafts some delighted girl above 

 The top leaves of the orange grove ; 



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