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The Poetry of Flowers. 
Oh ! there is nought in nature bright, 
Where Roses do not shed their light; 
Where morning paints the orient skies, 
Her fingers burn with roseate dyes ; 
And when, at length, with pale decline, 
Its florid beauties fade and pine, 
Sweet as in youth its balmy breath 
Diffuses odour e'en in death ! 
Oh! whence could such a plant have sprung ? 
Attend—for thus the tale is sung :— 
When humid from the silvery stream, 
Effusing beauty’s warmest beam, 
Venus appeared in flushing hues, 
Mellowed by ocean’s briny dews ; 
When, in the starry courts above, 
The pregnant brain of mighty Jove 
Disclosed the nymph of azure glance—- 
The nymph who shakes the martial lance— 
Then, then, in strange eventful hour, 
The earth produced an infant flower, 
Which sprung with blushing tinctures dressed, 
And wantoned o’er its parent breast. 
The gods beheld this brilliant birth, 
And hailed the Rose, the boon of earth, 
With nectar drops, a ruby tide, 
The sweetly orient buds they dyed, 
And bade them bloom, the flowers divine 
Of him who sheds the teeming vine ; 
And bade them on the spangled thorn 
Expand their blossoms to the morn. 
