THE ROSE-BUD. 
BY KEEBLE. 
When Nature tries her finest touch, 
Weaving her vernal wreath, 
Mark ye, how close she veils her round. 
Not to be traced by sight or sound. 
Nor soiled by ruder breath! 
Who ever saw the earliest rose 
First open her sweet breast ? 
Or, when the summer sun goes down. 
The first soft star in evening’s crown 
Light up her gleaming crest ? 
Fondly we seek the dawning bloom 
On features wan and fair— 
The gazing eye no change can trace, 
But look away a little space. 
Then turn, and lo ! ’tis there. 
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