210 



PAKSOXS OX THE EOSE. 



The Rose is still most rich and sweet, 



And wears the crown for beauty meet. 



I have basked in the beauty of southern climes, 



And wandered through groves of palm and limes, 



Where dark-eyed Spanish girls 



Would linger in their myrtle bowers,— 



With garlands rich of orange flowers 



Would weave their raven curls, 



And fasten 'mid their lustrous hair 



The fire-fly's glittering light. 



Which, brighter than the diamond's sheen. 



Bursts on the dazzled sio-ht. 



But yet I would not give for these, 



Produce of tropic sun and breeze — 



For all the flowers in beauty there — 



The Rose our northern maidens wear. 



I've crossed the Andes' lofty height, 



Its mountains, forest-crowned, 



And 'mong the devious, tangled paths 



Of tropic thickets wound. 



In fair Aragua's fertile vale. 



In Hayti's fields of bloom, 



I've marked the prickly Cactus tribe 



Its richest tints assume. 



I've passed through fragrant Coffee groves. 



By the tall Bucara tree, 



And by the Cocoa and the Palm, 



With the Trupeol warbling free ; 



Upon the flower-clad turf, and where 



The rich Orcliidia climbs in air. 



But not 'mid all this gorgeous bloom. 



By tropic climate wove, 



'Nov Florida's rich Mao-nolia 



And fragrant Orange grove ; 



Nov the graceful vines of southern France, 



Nov Italy's fair bowers. 



