POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
207 
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 in her own soft noon, 
To flourish and abide. 
THE ROSE. 
The rose had been wash’d, just washed in a show¬ 
er. 
Which Mary to Anna convey’d, 
The plentiful moisture encumber’d the flower, 
And weigh’d down its beautiful head. 
The cup was all fill’d, and the leaves were all wot, 
And it seem’d to a fanciful view. 
To weep for the buds it had left with regret 
On the flourishing bush where it grew. 
I hastily seized it, unfit as it was 
For a nosegay so dripping and drown’d ; 
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas ! 
I snapp’d it—it fell to the ground. 
