THE LANGUAGE OF FLOIVERS. 
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THE ROSE. 
The rose, o’er crag or vale, 
Sultana of the nightingale, 
The maid for whom his melody, 
His thousand songs are heard on high, 
Blooms blushing to her lover’s tale : 
His queen, the garden queen, his rose, 
Unbent by winds, unchilled by snows, 
Far from the winters of the west, 
By every breeze and season blest, 
Returns the sweets by nature given 
In softest incense back to heaven. 
A SONG OF THE ROSE. 
HEMANS. 
Rose ! what dost thou here, 
Bridal, royal rose ? 
How, ’midst grief and fear, 
Canst thou thus disclose 
That fervid hue of love, which to thy heart-leaf glows ? 
Rose ! here too much arrayed 
For triumphal hours, 
Look’st thou through the shade 
Of these mortal bowers, 
Not to disturb my soul, thou crowned one of all flowers ? 
As an eagle soaring 
Through a sunny sky, 
As a clarion pouring 
Notes of victory, 
So dost thou kindle thoughts, for earthly life too high— 
