POETRY OF THE ROSE. 



See ! from its veil of silken hair. 



That bathes her cheek in clusters bright, 



Her sweet face, like a blossom fair, 

 Reveals its wealth of bloom and light. 



How softly blends with childhood's smile 



That maiden mien of pure repose ! 

 Oh, seems she not herself the while 



A breathing flower a half-blown Rose ? 



F. S. OSGOOD. 



THE MOSS-ROSE. 



" I've a call to make," said the rich Moss-Rose, 



" At the house of a lady fair ; 

 Cousin China-Rose, if you'll go with me, 



I'll introduce you there. 



" 'Tis New Year's day ; come, do not stay, 

 But get on your cloak and hood ; 



You've moped so long by the green-house fire, 

 That a walk will do you good." 



Then China's Yellow Rose replied, 

 " You've a terrible climate, dear ; 



It has made me old before my time, 

 And bilious too, I fear ! 



" But I'll put my muff and tippet on, 

 Since you needs must have me go ; 



And yet I'm sure I heard a blast, 

 And saw a flake of snow." 



