Innocence. 
ROSEBUD, WHITE, 
THE FLOWER-SYLPH’S FROLIC, 
AT THE BIRTH OP THE ROSEBUD. 
In my bower I lay, one balmy day, 
When Nature had put on her summer array, 
And with me young Fancy, that changeable sprite, 
My playfellow ever, by day and by night, 
When suddenly raising her magical bell— 
It was wrought of a diamond in fairy land— 
She rang a sweet peal, that o’er mountain and dell 
Went floating in melody merry and bland; 
And lo! at the summons a sun-tinted vision 
Rose slowly, and softly and clearly to view, 
A scene of delight and enchantment elysian,— 
A garden whose blossoms were bathing in dew; 
And fair in the midst grew a noble Rose tree, 
From whose bosom a voice trembled tenderly low— 
Such a voice as you’d fancy, if flowers were free 
To speak or to warble, from roses would flow! 
“Come hither!” it sang, “come Hither! 
Come hither, from blossom and bell! 
Come! ere the noontide wither 
The blooms we love so well! 
“Oh! hasten to fill up the measure 
Of joy in the Rose-sylph’s heart! 
I will show you an exquisite treasure 
Whose health you must drink ere we part. 
“Last night when your bright eyes were closing, 
A dear little Rosebud was born! 
And in her green cradle reposing, 
She’s at home to relations this morn!” 
Then i heard a low musical laugh of delight, 
Each blossom bowed meekly its dew-jeweled head, 
