CHAPTER XVIII. 
ROSE—LOVE. 
How much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom, 
Rose ! ever wearing beauty for thy dower. 
The bridal day, the festival, the tomb, 
Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flower ! 
Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by 
A thousand images of love and grief, 
Dreams, filled with tokens of mortality, 
Deep thought of all things beautiful and brief. 
Mbs. Hemans. 
R. 
Ragged Robin 
Ranunculus ... 
Wit. 
You are radiant with 
charms. 
