KOSE. 
189 
The summer thrush bids thee rejoice, 
And wintry robin’s dearer lay. 
Sweet flower ! how happy dost thou seem 
’ Mid parching heat, ’ mid nipping frost, 
While gathering beauty from each beam, 
No hue, no grace of thine is lost! 
Thus Hope, ’mid life’s severest days, 
Still smiles, still triumphs o’er despair : 
Alike she lives in Pleasure’s rays, 
And cold Affliction’s winter air. 
Charmer alike in lordly bower, 
And in the hermit’s cell she glows ; 
The Poet’s and the Lover’s flower. 
The bosom’s Everlasting Rose ! 
SHARON’S ROSE. 
ANON. 
Go Warrior, pluck the laurel bough, 
And bind it round thy reeking brow ; 
Ye sons of pleasure ! blithely twine 
A chaplet of the purple vine ; 
And Beauty cull each blushing flower. 
That ever decked the sylvan bower ; 
No wreath is bright, no garland fair, 
Unless sweet Sharon’s Rose be there. 
