ROSE. 
109 
THE MOSS ROSE. 
FROM THE GERMAN. 
The Angel of the flowers, one day, 
Beneath a Rose-tree sleeping lay— 
That spirit to whom charge is given 
To bathe young buds in dews of heaven; 
Awaking from his light repose, 
The Angel whisper’d to the Rose: 
“O fondest object of my care, 
“Still fairest found where all are fair, 
“ For the sweet shade thou giv’st to me; 
“Ask what thou wilt, ’t is granted thee!” 
“Then,” said the Rose, with deepen’d glow, 
“On me another grace bestow!” — 
The spirit paused in silent thought,— 
What grace was there that flower had not? 
’Twas but a moment — o’er the Rose 
A veil of moss the angel throws; 
And, robed in Nature’s simplest weed, 
Could there a flower that Rose exceed? 
THE WILD ROSE. 
MILLHOTJSE. 
Oh! there’s a wild Rose in yon rugged dell, 
Fragrant as that which blooms the garden’s pride; 
And there’s a sympathy no tongue can tell, 
Breathed from the linnet chanting by its side: 
