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: 
“Ah! 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 
“ 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. 
Mrs. Osgood. 
“ 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 
