POETRY OE FLOWERS. 
205 
Who ever saw the earliest rose 
First open her sweet breast ? 
Or, when the summer sun goes down, . 
The first soft star in evening’s crown 
Light up her gleaming crest ? 
Fondly we seek the dawning bloom 
On features wan and fair,— 
The gazing eye no change can trace, 
But look away a little space, 
Then turn, and lo ! ’tis there. 
But there’s a sweeter flower than e’er 
Blushed on the rosy spray— 
A brighter star, a richer bloom 
Then e’er did western heaven illume 
At close of summer day. 
'Tis love, the last best gift of heaven ; 
Love—gentle, holy, pure; 
But tenderer than a dove’s soft eye. 
The searching sun, the open sky, 
She never could endure. 
Even human love will shrink from sight 
Here in the coarse rude earth ; 
How then should rash intruding glance 
Break in upon her sacred trance, 
Who boasts a heavenly birth ? 
