Floral Poetry. 
if 
200 
AMOUR OF THE ROSE, 
©right of tfjc ®fjorns. 
V'OUNG Love, rambling through the wood, 
^ Found me in my solitude, 
Bright with dew and freshly blown 
And trembling to the Zephyr’s sighs ; 
But as he stopped to gaze upon 
The living gem with raptured eyes, 
It chanced a bee was busy there, 
Searching for its fragrant fair ; 
And Cupid, stooping too, to sip, 
The angry insect stung his lip; 
And, gushing from the ambrosial cell, 
One bright drop on my bosom fell. 
Weeping, to his mother he 
Told the tale of treachery, 
And she, her vengeful boy to please, 
Strung his bow with captive bees, 
But placed upon my slender stem 
The poisoned sting she plucked from them ; 
And none since that eventful morn 
Have found the flower without a thorn. 
Anon. 
