ROSE. 
185 
No rose-bud is nigh 
To reflect back her blushes, 
Or give sigh for sigh ! 
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one ! 
To pine on the stem ; 
Since the lovely are sleeping, 
Go sleep thou with them ; 
Thus kindly I scatter 
Thy leaves o’er the bed, 
Where thy mates of the garden, 
Lie scentless and dead. 
ON PLUCKING A WILD ROSE LATE 
IN THE MONTH OF OCTOBER. 
MONTGOMERY. 
Thou last pale promise of the waning year, 
Poor sickly Rose’, what dost thou here ? 
Why, frail flower ! so late a comer, 
Hast thou slept away the summer 1 
Since now, in Autumn’s sullen reign, 
W hen every breeze 
Unrobes the trees, 
And strews their annual garments on the plain, 
Awaking from repose, 
Thy fairy lids unclose. 
