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and he will find other feelings than those of admiration 
insensibly mingle with his contemplations. It does, 
indeed, read a fitting comment on earthly pleasures. 
We have still on earth “ flowers of all hue,” but we 
cannot add, 
“ And without thorn the rose.” 
Gem of the bower, sweet Rose ! the fairest, brightest 
Of the gay tribes which drink the summer beam, 
Unchanged thou seem’st, and still my eye delightest, 
When other joys are passing as a dream. 
Oh! with each breath that fills the zephyr’s wing, 
How much of early feeling seems to spring ! 
Nor do I feel, when in my breast I wear thee, 
Thy scent and beauty form thy only spell; 
To sober thought thy very thorns endear thee, 
For wholesome are the solemn truths they tell ; 
Traits of the fall, they seem, sweet flower, to thee, 
What care and grief are to humanity. 
