350 
THE DROP OF DEW. 
But the rude boy laid his hands on the flower, 
The little rose vainly hiding 
Among the boughs; 0 the rose was caught! 
But it turned again, and pricked and fought, 
And left with its spoiler a smart from that hour, 
A pain for ever abiding; 
Little rose, little rose, little red rose, 
Among the bushes hiding ! 
Sr.oji 0f jpto. 
Anon. 
S EE how the orient dew, 
Shed from the bosom of the morn, 
Into the blowing roses, 
Is careless of its mansion new ; 
For the clear region where ’twas born 
It in itself incloses, 
And in its little globe’s extent, 
Frames, as it can, its native element. 
How it the purple flower does slight, 
Scarce touching where it lies; 
But gazing back upon the skies, 
Shines with a mournful light, 
Like its own tear ! 
