116 POETRY OF THE ROSE. 



I saw the sweet breeze rippling o'er 

 Their leaves that loved the play, 



Though the light thief stole all their store 

 Of dew-drop gems away. 



I thought how happy I should be 



Such diamond wreaths to wear, 

 And frolic with a Rose's glee, 



With sunbeam, bird, and air ! 



Ah me ! ah ! wo is me ! that I, 



Ere yet my leaves unclose, 

 With all my wealth of sweets, must die 



Before I am a Rose ! 



FRANCES S. OSGOOD. 



THE HALF-BLOWN ROSE. 



SUGGESTED BY A PORTRAIT. 



'Tis just the flower she ought to wear 

 The simple flower the painter chose ; 



And are they not a charming pair 

 The modest girl the half-blown Rose ? 



The glowing bud has stolen up, 



With tender smile and blushing grace, 



And o'er its mossy, clasping cup 

 In bashful pride reveals its face. 



The maiden too, with timid feet. 



Has sprung from childhood's verdant bower. 

 And lightly left its limit sweet, 



For woman's lot of shine and shower. 





