138 THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
Rose ! thou art the sweetest flower 
That ever drank the amber shower; 
Rose ! thou art the fondest child 
Of dimpled spring, the wood-nymph wild! 
Even the gods who walk the sky 
Are amorous of thy scented sigh. 
Cupid too, in Paphian shades, 
His hair with rosy fillet braids. 
Then bring me showers of roses, bring, 
And shed them round me while I sing. 
THE MOSS ROSE. 
FROM THE GERMAN OF KRUMMACHER. 
The Angel of the flowers one day, 
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay; 
That spirit to whose charge ’tis given 
To bathe young buds in dews of heaven;— 
Awaking from his light repose, 
The Angel whispered to the Rose:— 
“ O fondest object of my care, 
Still fairest found, where all are fair; 
For the sweet shade thou giv’st to me, 
Ask what thou wilt, ’tis granted thee !” 
Then said the Rose, with deepened glow, 
“ On me another grace bestow f 
The spirit paused in silent thought,— 
What grace was there that flower had not ? 
’Twas but a moment—o’er the Rose 
A veil of moss the Angel throws, 
And, robed in nature’s simplest weed, 
Could there a flower that Rose exceed ? 
