THE ROSE. 
89 
THE ROSE. 
ROSA. 
“ Sweet Rose, in air whose odours wave 
And colour charms the eye, 
Thy root is ever in the grave, 
And thou, alas ! must die.” 
So many arc the classical legends and poetical associ¬ 
ations connected with the rose, that they crowd almost 
too thickly on the memory, baffling it by their very 
profusion. By common consent, in every clime and 
every age, the rose has been held the queen of flowers. 
It has been the poet’s theme from time immemorial, 
and vain would be the attempt to transcribe even the 
hundredth part of the beautiful things which have been 
said or sung of it. Generally speaking, its eulogists, in 
our country at least, have anticipated its appearance, 
and bestowed it, with other tokens of lavish regard, on 
