54 the ROSE-BUD. 
He could not trust his melting soul 
But in his Maker’s sight— 
Then why should gentle hearts and true 
Bare to the rude world’s withering view 
Their treasures of delight ? 
No—let the dainty rose awhile 
Her bashful fragrance hide— 
Rend not her silken veil too soon, 
But leave her, in her own soft noon. 
To flourish and abide. 
THE SUNFLOWER. 
BY THOMPSON. 
Who can unpitying see the flow’ry race 
Shed by the moon their new flush’d bloom resign 
Before the parching beam ? so fades the face. 
When fevers revel through their azure veins. 
But one the lofty follower of the sun. 
Sad when he sits, shuts up her yellow leaves. 
Drooping all night, and when he warm returns 
Points her enamour’d bosom to his ray. 
