Floral Poetry. 
He could not trust his melting soul 
But in His Maker’s sight— 
Then why should gentle hearts and true 
Bare to the rude world’s withering view 
Their treasures of delight ? 
No; let the dainty Rose awhile 
Her bashful fragrance hide— 
Rend not her silken veil too soon, 
But leave her, in her own soft noon, 
To flourish and abide. 
Keble. 
THE ROSE. 
H OW much of memory dwells amidst thy bloom, 
Rose ! ever wearing beauty for thy dower! 
The bridal-day—the festival—the tomb— 
Thou hast thy part in each, thou stateliest flower; 
Therefore with thy soft breath come floating by, 
A thousand images of love and grief, 
Dreams, filled with tokens of mortality, 
Deep thoughts of all things beautiful and brief. 
Not such thy spells o’er those that hailed thee first 
In the clear light of Eden’s golden day; 
There thy rich leaves to crimson glory burst, 
Linked with no dim remembrance of decay. 
Rose ! for the banquet gathered, and the bier ; 
Rose ! coloured now by human hope or pain ; 
Surely where death is not—nor change nor fear, 
Yet may we meet thee, joy’s own flower again ! 
Mrs. Hemans. 
