186 
nosE. 
Last and meanest of thy race. 
Void of colour, beauty, grace ! 
No bee delighted sips 
Ambrosia from thy lips ; 
No spangling dew-drops gem 
Thy fine elastic stem ; 
No living lustre glistens o’er thy bloom, 
Thy sprigs no verdant leaves adorn ; 
Thy bosom breathes no exquisite perfume. 
But pale thy countenance as snow. 
While, unconcealed below. 
All naked glares the threat’ning thorn. 
THE WINTER ROSE. 
ANON. 
Hail, and farewell, thou lovely guest! 
I may not woo thy stay, 
The hues that paint thy glowing vest, 
Are fading fast away, 
Like the returning tints that die 
At evening on the western sky. 
And melt in misty grey. 
It was but now thy radiant smile 
Broke through the season’s gloom. 
As bending I inhaled awhile 
