AND FLOWERS OF POETRY. 39 j 
And then her look!—oh! where’s the heart so wise, 
Could unbewildered meet those matchless eyes? 
Moore. 
Her cheen was very eloquent; 
In passion, pride, or shame, 
Like summer’s warmest lightning flash, 
The colour to it came; — 
In joy — swift smiles and dimples broke 
Upon its pure repose, 
Like sunshine and a zephyr, 
At play upon a rose. 
f. s. o. 
THE ROSE IN ICE. 
She has a glowing heart, they say, 
Though calm her seeming be, 
And oft that warm heart’s lovely play, 
Upon her cheek, I see. 
Her cheek is almost always pale, 
And marble-cold it seems; 
But a soft colour quivers there, 
At times in rosy gleams; 
Some sudden throb of love or grief, 
Or pity or delight— 
And lo! a flush of beauty, brief, 
But passionately bright! 
She ’minds me of a rose I found, 
In a far southern land, 
