176 T HE POE T R Y OF FLO W E R S 
PLEASURE WITHOUT ALLOY. 
MOSS-ROSE. 
The rose that hails the morning, 
Arrayed in all its sweets, 
Its mossy couch adorning, 
The sun enamoured meets. 
The elegant moss-rose is commonly supposed to be the off¬ 
spring of the Provence rose, though some consider it to belong 
to the family of hundred-leaved roses. It has ever been made 
the emblem of perfect joy ; Milton mentions it as 
Without thorn, the rose ; 
And an anonymous writer has sung of it in that character : — 
Oh ! I love the sweet-blooming, the pretty moss-rose, 
’Tis the type of true pleasure, and perfected joy; 
Oh! I envy each insect that dares to repose 
’Mid its leaves, or among its soft beauties to toy. 
I love the sweet lily, so pure and so pale, 
With a bosom as fair as the new-fallen snows; 
Her luxuriant odours she spreads through the vale, 
Yet e’en she must yield to my pretty moss-rose. 
Oh! I love the gay heart’s-ease, and violet blue, 
The sunflower and bluebell, each floweret that blows, 
The fir-tree, the pine-tree, acacia, and yew, 
Yet e’en these must yield to my pretty moss-rose. 
Yes, I love my moss-rose, for it ne’er had a thorn, 
’T is the type of life’s pleasures, unmixed with its woes; 
’T is more gay, and more bright, than the opening morn 
Yes, all things must yield to my pretty moss-rose. 
