112 
ROSE. 
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 deck’d the sylvan bower; 
No wreath is bright, no garland fair, 
Unless sweet Sharon’s Rose be there. 
The laurel branch will droop and die, 
The vine its purple fruit deny, 
The wreath that smiling beauty twined 
Will leave no lingering bud behind; 
