822 
THE P0ETK1T OF FLOWERS. 
THE ROSE BUD. 
BY KEBLE. 
When nature tries her finest touch, 
Weaving her vernal wreath, 
Mark ye how close she veils her round, 
t Not to be traced by sight or sound. 
Nor soil’d by ruder breath ? 
Whoever saw the earliest rose 
First open her sweet breast ? 
Or, when the summer sun goes down. 
The first, soft star in evening’s crown 
Light up her gleaming crest ? 
Fondly we seek the dawning bloom 
On features wan and fair,— 
The gazing eye no change can trace. 
But look away a little space, 
Then turn, and lo ! ’tis there. 
But there’s a sweeter flower than e’er 
Blush’d on the rosy spray— 
A brighter star, a richer bloom, 
Than e’er did western heaven illume 
At close of summer day. 
