HOSE. 
173 
Pure, glowing Rose, how canst thou rise, 
So fresh with joy, so full of mirth — 
Whilst conscious that thy gifted charms 
Pass swift as summer’s transient gale, 
That neither can thy prickly arms 
Nor ptirple beauty aught avail. 
An hour—an instant, to delay 
The killing stroke of quick decay ? 
Fast pale thy burning wings, fast curl 
Thy leaves—the blithe bee, murmuring 
round, 
Strikes them, and one by one, they whirl, 
Decayed and senseless to the ground. 
So closely joined thy life appears 
With thy decay, that scarce I know, 
If sad Aurora in the tears 
She weeps for thee, would wish to show 
Grief for thy birth or for thy death, 
Sweet creature of celestial breath. 
ON A BLIGHTED ROSE-BUD. 
C. SYMONS. 
Scarce had thy velvet lips imbibed the dew, 
And Nature hailed thee infant queen of May ; 
Scarce saw thine opening bloom the sun’s 
broad ray. 
