THE ROSE. 
97 
May faith, and hope, and holy love 
Shine every other grace above, 
As night’s pure gems are best display’d, 
The darker grows the gathering shade. 
This were to fade as doth the rose. 
When the chill north-wind o’er it blows; 
Its early brightness may decay, 
Its leaves fall one by one away, 
Yet, yet, despite both wind and rain, 
Its fragrance doth unharm’d remain. 
As if to point this moral home — 
Man’s nobler part survives his bloom. 
ti 
