POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
9 
There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snowy hosom sunward spread, 
Thou lift’st thy unassuming head, 
In humble suit; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 
And kills thy root. 
Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
Which long with want and woe has striven, 
By human pride or cunning driven 
To misery’s brink, 
Till, wrenched of every stay but heaven, 
He needs must sink. 
IioET. Burns. 
THE BOSE. 
Nay, Edith ! spare the rose!—it lives—it lives, 
It feels the noon-tide sun, and drinks refresh’d 
The dews of night; let not thy gentle hand 
Tear sunder its life-fibres and destroy 
The sense of being!—why that infidel smile ? 
Come, I will bribe thee to be merciful, 
And thou shalt have a tale of other times, 
For I am skill’d in legendary lore, 
So thou wilt let it live. There was a time 
Ere this, the freshest, sweetest flower that Moots, 
Bedeck’d the bowers of earth. Thou hast not heard 
