ROSE. 
IS* 
THE DYING ROSEBUD, 
MRS. OSGOOD. 
Ah me ! ah, woe is me ! 
That I should perish now, 
With the dear sunlight just let in 
Upon my balmy brow. 
My leaves, instinct with glowing life, 
Were quivering to unclose ; 
My happy heart with love was rife— 
I was almost a rose. 
Nerved by a hope, rich, warm, intense, 
Already I had risen 
Above my cage’s curving fence, 
My green and graceful prison. 
My pouting lips, by Zephyr pressed, 
Were just prepared to part, 
And Avhisper to the wooing wind 
The rapture of my heart. 
In new-born fancies revelling, 
My mossy cell half-riven, 
Each thrilling leaflet seemed a wing 
To bear me into heaven. 
How oft, while yet an infaiit flower, 
My crimson cheek I’ve laid 
Against the green bars of my bower, 
Impatient of the shade; 
K * 
