THE ROSEBUD. 
347 
But there’s a sweeter flower than e’er 
Blushed on the rosy spray,— 
A brighter star, a richer bloom, 
Than e’er did western heaven illume 
At close of Summer day. 
’Tis Love, the last, best gift of Heaven, 
Love, gentle, holy, pure ; 
But tenderer than a dove’s soft eye, 
The searching sun, the open sky, 
She never could endure. 
Even human Love will shrink from sight 
Here in the coarse, rude earth: 
How then should rash, intruding glance, 
Break in upon her sacred trance 
Who boasts a heavenly birth ? 
So still and secret is her growth, 
Ever the truest heart, 
Where deepest strikes her kindly root 
For hope or joy, for flower or fruit, 
Least knows its happy part. 
God only, and good angels, look 
Behind the blissful screen,— 
As when, triumphant o’er his woes, 
The Son of God by moonlight rose. 
By all but Heaven unseen — 
