The Rose. 
29 
The short and fragile nature of flowers has ever caused them 
to be regarded as types of the frail tenure of this existence— 
so much so, indeed, that many restrain from even plucking 
them, and even regard a present of them as an inauspicious 
omen. A promising young poetess, who has just departed from 
amongst us, embodied this idea in the following touching lines 
—rendered all the more pathetic from the fact that their pub¬ 
lication only preceded her decease by a few weeks: 
“ Oh ! do not give me flowers, my love, 
Oh! do not give me flowers ! 
’T is an omen sad to give your love— 
These fragile, fading flowers. 
Their life is given by the sun, 
His warmth and light their birth, 
But soon must every fading one 
Shed its pale leaves on earth. 
Oh, do not give me flowers, my love, 
Oh, do not give me flowers ! 
’T is an omen sad to give your love— 
These fragile, fading flowers. 
“ I would not wear a wreath of flowers 
Upon my bridal day, 
Or let them strew my path with showers 
Of roses, bright and gay. 
’T is better they should shade a grave 
In cool and lonely dell, 
Where green ferns droop and harebells wave 
Each swaying lilac bell. 
Oh ! do not give me flowers, my love, 
Oh! do not give me flowers! 
’T is an omen sad to give your love— 
These fragile, fading flowers.” 
Ella Ingram. 
But enough of the saddening thoughts engendered by such 
painful associations. “ To fresh fields, and pastures new,” O 
loving reader, come ! 
Is there any need to remind you that the rose, the inter¬ 
preter of our finest feelings and most delicate emotions, is em¬ 
blematical of joy and love ? Consecrated to Venus, the Goddess 
of Beauty, like her it is a type of all that is most graceful in 
youth, innocence and pleasure. Celebrated by Anacreon as 
“ the flower of flowers,” and extolled by every succeeding, ay, 
and preceding poet, all the lavish praise it has received has not 
