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I count each bud with silent hope 
Which Summer ripens into flower; 
And, when the glowing petals ope, 
I cherish them within my bower. 
I love it in its earliest blade, 
I love it in its richest bloom; 
And, when its living beauties fade, 
I court its memory in perfume.’’ 
It has been fondly said of the Rose, 
“ Her blush makes black the mom ; ” 
and her colour is, indeed, exquisite, though there are 
other flowers whose tints may vie with hers; but her 
fragrance is unrivalled, and, above ail, it is undying. 
The poet speaks truly in giving this as the chief 
reason of her famé. 
“But first of ail the Rose; because its breath 
Is rich beyond the rest; and when it dies 
It doth bequeath a cliarm to sweeten death.” 
The Rose has received the, greatest honours in Per- 
sia, where a period of festivity, called “ the Feast of 
the Roses,” lasts during the time of their bloom. In 
Europe, though she has been no where thus cele- 
brated, tokens of distinction hâve not been wanting: 
