hose. 
175 
My thorns shall make thy fingers bleed — 
Thy rash design give o’er.’ 
My little rose, my rose-bud dear ! 
My rose that blooms the road-side near! 
Regardless of its thorny spray, 
The child would tear the rose away; 
The rose bewailed with sob and sigh. 
But all in vain, no help was nigh 
To quell the urchin’s pow’r. 
My little rose, my rose-bud dear ! 
My rose that bloomed the road-side near! 
THE ROSE. 
31ETASTASIO. 
O lovely rose, whose dewy leaflets blowing. 
Are tended by the genial breath of morn, 
And o’er whose breast, the early breezes 
borne, 
Have left in crimson hue thy garments glow¬ 
ing : 
The same kind hand that watches now thy 
growing. 
Shall lead thee soon a purer scene to adorn, 
Where, freed for ever from the galling thorn 
Thou’lt bloom—alone thy fairer features 
showing. 
Q 2 
