ROSE. 
Ill 
THE EVERLASTING ROSE. 
ANSTER. 
Hail to thy hues! thou lovely flower; 
Still shed around thy soft perfume, 
Still smile amid the wintry hour, 
And boast even now a spring-tide bloom. 
Thine is, methinks, a pleasing dream, 
Lone lingerer in the icy vale, 
Of smiles that hail’d the morning beam, 
And sighs more sweet for evening’s gale. 
Still are thy green leaves whispering 
Low sounds to fancy’s ear, that tell 
Of mornings, when the wild bee’s wing 
Shook dew-drops from thy sparkling cell! 
In April’s bower thy sweets are breathed, 
And June beholds thy blossoms fair; 
In Autumn’s chaplet thou art wreathed, 
And round December’s forehead bare. 
With thee the graceful Lily vied, 
As Summer breezes waved her head, 
And now the Snow-drop at thy side 
Meekly contrasts thy cheerful red. 
’T is thine to hear each varying voice, 
That marks the seasons sad or gay; 
The summer thrush bids thee rejoice, 
And wintry robin’s dearer lay. 
