t 





I 





And bade them bloom, the flowers divine 



Of him * who sheds the teeming vine ; 



And bade them on the spangled thorn 



Expand their bosom to the morn. 



Moore. 



Sappho,, the Lesbian Poetess, gives us another origin, and elegantly represents the white 

 rose as converted into the red, from the emotions of the heart suffusing the face of love. 



If Jove would give the leafy bowers 

 A queen for all their world of flowers, 

 The Rose would be the choice of Jove, 

 And reign the queen of every grove. 

 Sweetest child of weeping morning, 

 Gem, the vest of earth adorning, 

 Eye of flow'rets, glow of lawns, 

 Bud of beauty, nurs'd by dawns: 

 Soft the soul of love it breathes, 

 Cypria's brow with magic wreaths ; 

 And to the Zephyr s warm caresses 

 Diffuses all its verdant tresses, 

 Till, glowing with the wanton's play, 



It blushes a diviner ray! 



Moore. 



The origin of the red rose is differently accounted for by Catullus, who describes it as 

 proceeding from the blood of Venus falling upon the white rose, as her tender feet were torn 

 by its thorns in attempting to rescue Adonis from the jealous resentment of Mars. 



While the enamour'd queen of joy 



Flies to protect her lovely boy, 

 On whom the jealous war-god rushes ; 



She treads upon a thorny rose, 



And, while the wound with crimson flows, 

 The snowy flow' ret feels her blood, and blushes. 



Moore. 



v. 



The Rose, as well as the Vine, was consecrated to Bacchus, and the ancients not only crowned themselves with roses, but cast them 

 into the bowl. Vide note * on the Nymphea Nelumbo. 



They wove the Lotus band to deck 



And grace with sweets the blooming neck ; 



And every guest, to shade his head, 



Three charming little chaplets spread ; 



And one was of Egyptian leaf, 



The rest were roses, fair and brief. 



Then from the sparkling vase profound 



To all on flow'ry beds around, 



A sprightly Nymph of heavenly shape, 



Pour'd the rich weepings of the grape. 



Moore. 



Tempora sectilibus cinguntur tota coronis, 

 Et latet injecta splendida mensa rosa. 



Ovid. 



