Floral Poetry. 
187 
Sweet messenger ! of triumph due 
O’er death in all his Wintry pride; 
He cannot quench one living hue, 
Which Heaven has destined to abide 
Undimmed ’midst nature’s dire decay, 
To blossom in eternal day. 
I’ll fix thee here beside my heart 
To calm its pulse and check its play, 
To heal its wounds, and soothe its smart, 
And chase each rankling thought away ; 
For surely nought of earthly care 
May mar its peace when thou art there. 
Thomas Gillespie. 
THE QUEEN OF THE GARDEN. 
(£i)c Rose. 
Y F Jove would give the leafy bowers 
^ A queen for all their world of flowers, 
The Rose would be the choice of Jove, 
And reign the queen of every grove. 
Sweetest child of weeping morning, 
Gem, the vest of earth adorning, 
Eye of flowerets, glow of lawns, 
Bud of beauty, nursed by dawns ; 
Soft the soul of love it breathes, 
Cypria’s brow with magic wreathes, 
And to the Zephyr’s warm caresses 
Diffuses all its verdant tresses, 
Till, glowing with the wanton’s play, 
It blushes a diviner ray ! 
Moore. 
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