44 
The Rose. 
And again, to 
“The sheath-enfolded fans of rosy bushes. 
Ready against their blushes.” 
Spenser has bequeathed us a very felicitous stanza about the 
budding rose: 
“ Ahl see the virgin rose, how sweetly she 
Doth first peep forth with bashful modesty, 
That fairer seems the less ye see her may ! 
Lo ! see soon after how, more bold and free, 
Her bared bosom she doth broad display! 
Lo ! see soon after how she fades and falls away!” 
Sir Walter Scott tells us that 
“ The rose is fairest when ’t is budding new, 
And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears; 
The rose is sweetest washed with morning dew, 
And love is loveliest when embalmed with tears. ” 
But of all the beautiful things said about this most beautiful 
of Flora’s children, the most delicate and the most apposite 
appears to us to be “ The Dying Rose-bud’s Lament,” by a 
transatlantic poetess, the late Mrs. Osgood. 
‘ ‘ Ah, me ! ah, woe is me! 
That I should perish now, 
With the dear sunlight just let in 
Upon my balmy brow. 
“ My leaves, instinct with glowing life, 
Were quivering to unclose; 
My happy heart with love was rife— 
I was almost a rose. 
“ Nerved by a hope, rich, warm, intense, 
Already I had risen 
Above my cage’s curving fence, 
My green and graceful prison. 
“ My pouting lips, by Zephyr pressed, 
Were just prepared to part, 
And whispered to the wooing wind 
The rapture of my heart. 
“In new-bom fancies revelling, 
My mossy cell half-riven, 
Each thrilling leaflet seemed a wing 
To bear me into heaven. 
“ How oft, while yet an infant flower, 
My crimson cheek I’ve laid 
Against the green bars of my bower, 
Impatient of the shade ; 
* ‘ And pressing up and peeping through 
Its small but precious vistas, 
Sighed for the lovely light and dew 
That blessed my elder sisters. 
“ I saw the sweet breeze rippling o’er 
Their leaves that loved the play, 
Though the light thief stole all the store 
Of dew-drop gems away. 
' ‘ I thought how happy I should be 
Such diamond wreaths to wear, 
And frolic with a rose’s glee 
With sunbeam, bird, and air. 
“ Ah, me ! ah, woe is me ! that I, 
Ere yet my leaves unclose, 
With all my wealth of sweets, must die 
Before I am a rose!” 
It scarcely appears possible that this sweet, suggestive lay 
could be the production of a girl only fourteen years old, yet 
