ROSE, WILD, 
The Blush of Feeling. 
Nay ! come not to me, if you sigh for the splendor 
That ’neath the lash lightens, in Beauty’s blue eye; 
I have naught but affection true, timid and tender, 
If this be not dear to you —all to you—fly! 
Ah! seek not my side, if the grace of a ringlet, 
That goldenly floats, too beguiling can be; 
A love such as yours is, can ne’er want a ringlet— 
Go wave it o’er others, but come not to me! 
Oh! come not to me, if you watch the glow stealing 
O’er Beauty, like roselight of morning on snow; 
No bloom warms my cheek, save the wild-rose of Feeling— 
If this be not dear to you —all to you—go! 
F. S. 0. 
“Though Time thy bloom is stealing, 
There’s still, beyond his art, 
The wild-flower wreath of Feeling, 
The sunbeam of the heart.” 
