DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUP. 29 
TILE QUEEN OF THE GARDEN. 
MOORE. 
If Jove would give the leafy bowers 
A queen for all their world of flowers, 
The rose would be the choice of Jove, 
And reign the queen of every grove. 
Sweetest child of weeping morning, — 
Gem, the rest of earth adorning, 
Eye of flow’rets, glow of lawns, 
Bud of beauty, nursed by dawns ; 
Soft the soul of love it breathes; 
Cypria’s brow with magic wreathes; 
And to the zephyrs warm caresses 
Diffuses all its verdant tresses, 
Till, glowing with the wanton’s play, 
It blushes a diviner ray 
Of all flowers, 
Methinks a rose is best. * * * 
It is the very emblem of a maid; 
For when the west wind courts her gently, 
How modestly she blows, and paints the sun 
With her chaste blushes! When the north comes 
near her, 
Eude and impatient, then, like chastity, 
She locks her beauties in her bud again, 
And leaves him to base briers. 
Beaumont and Fletcher. 
