212 
IHE LOVER’S OFFERING. 
THE ROSE, 
As late each flower that sweetest blows 
I pluck’d the garden’s pride! 
Within the petals of a rose 
A sleeping love I spied. 
Around his brows a beamy wreath 
Of many a lucent hue ; 
All purple glow’d his cheek beneath, 
Inebriate with dew. 
I softly seized the unguarded power, 
Nor scar’d his balmy rest; 
And plac’d him, cag’d within the flower 
Upon my lover’s breast. 
But when unweeting of the guile 
Awoke the pris’ner sweet, 
He struggled to escape awhile 
And stamp’d his fairy feet. Coleridge. 
THE ROSE. 
The Rose, the sweet-blooming Rose, 
Ere from the tree ’tis torn, 
Is like the charm which beauty shows, 
In life’s exulting morn! 
