112 
ROSE 
Sweet flower! how happy dost thou seem 
’Mid parching heat, ’mid nipping frosi,-— 
While gathering beauty from each beam, 
No hue, no grace of thine is lost! 
Thus Hope, ’mid life’s severest days, 
Still smiles, still triumphs o’er despair *. 
Alike she lives in Pleasure’s rays, 
And cold Affliction’s winter air. 
Charmer alike in lordly bower, 
And in the hermit’s cell, she glows; 
The Poet’s and the Lover’s flower, 
The bosom’s Everlasting Rose! 
SHARON’S ROSE. 
ANON. 
Go, Warrior, pluck the laurel bough, 
And bind it round thy reeking brow; 
Ye sons of pleasure! blithely twine 
A chaplet of the purple vine; 
And Beauty cull each blushing flower 
That ever deck’d the sylvan bower; 
No wreath is bright, no garland fair. 
Unless sweet Sharon’s Rose be there. 
The laurel branch will droop and die, 
■The vine its purple fruit deny, 
The wreath that smiling beauty twined 
Will leave no lingering bud behind; 
