80 
THE ROSE-BUD. 
’Tis love, the last best gift of heaven; 
Love gentle, holy, pure : 
But tenderer than a dove’s soft eye, 
The searching sun, the open sky, 
She never could endure. 
Even human love will shrink from sight 
Here in the coarse rude earth : 
How then should rash intruding glance 
Break in upon her sacred trance 
Who boasts a heavenly birth ! 
So still and secret is her growth. 
Ever the truest heart. 
Where deepest strikes her kindly root 
For hope or joy, for flower or fruit, 
Least known its happy part. 
God only, and good angels, look 
Behind the blissful screen— 
As when, triumphant o’er his woes, 
The Son of God, by moonlight rose, 
By all but heaven unseen: 
As when the holy Maid beheld 
Her risen Son and Lord : 
Thought has not colours half so fair 
That she to paint that hour may dare. 
In silence best adored. 
