ROSE. 
117 
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 bosoms to the morn. 
According' to ancient Fable, the red colour of 
the Rose may be traced to Venus, whose delicate 
foot, when she was hastening to the relief of 
her beloved Adonis, was pierced by a thorn, that 
drew blood. 
Which on the White Rose being shed, 
Made it for ever after red. 
Herrick. 
Its beautiful tint, is traced to another source 
by a modern poet: 
As erst, in Eden’s blissful bowers, 
Young Eve survey’d her countless flowers, 
An opening Rose of purest white 
She marked with eye that beam’d delight, 
Its leaves she kiss’d, and straight it drew 
From beauty’s lip the vermeil hue. 
Carey. 
The origin of that exquisitely beautiful va¬ 
riety, the Moss Rose, is thus fancifully accounted 
for: 
The Angel of the Flowers, one day, 
Beneath a Rose Tree sleeping lay, 
