100 
FLORAL POESY. 
May wring it from its stem : in vain - 
To-morrow sees it bloom again ! 
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To it tlie livelong night there sings 
A bird unseen, but not remote : 
Invisible his airy wings, 
But soft as harp that Ilouri strings 
His long entrancing note. 
THE ROSE. 
The rose o’er crag or vale, 
Sultana of the nightingale, 
The maid for whom his melody, 
His thousand songs are heard on high, 
Blooms blushing to her lover’s tale : 
His queen, the garden queen, his rose, 
Unbent by winds, unchilled by snows, 
Far from the winters of the west, 
By every breeze and season blest, 
Be turns the sweets by nature given 
In softest incense back to heaven. 
A SONG OF THE ROSE. 
HEMANS. 
Bose ! what dost thou here. 
Bridal, royal rose ? 
How, ’midst grief and fear, 
Canst thou thus disclose 
That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leaf glows ? 
