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LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
That Spirit to whose charge is given 
To bathe young buds in dews from 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’st given to me, 
Ask what thou wilt, ’tis granted thee.” 
Then said the Rose with deepening glow, 
“ On me another grace bestow.” 
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 ! 
Pfeffel, a German poet, has pleasingly ac¬ 
counted for the Origin of the Yellow Rose, the 
emblem of envy, in the following manner: 
Once a White Rose-bud reared her head, 
And peevishly to Flora said 
“ Look at my sister’s blushing hue— 
Pray, mother, let me have it too.” 
“ Nay, child,” was Flora’s mild reply, 
“ Be thankful for such gifts as I 
Have deem’d befitting to dispense— 
Thy dower the hue of innocence.” 
