PLATONIC LOVE. 
219 
Yes, I love my moss rose, for it ne’er had a thorn, 
’Tis the type of life’s pleasures, unmix’d with its 
woes; 
’Tis more gay, and more bright, than the opening 
morn — 
Yes, all things must yield to my pretty moss rose. 
PLATONIC LOVE. 
ACACIA. 
The savages of America have consecrated 
the acacia to the genius of chaste love ; their 
bows are made from the incorruptible wood of 
this tree, their arrows are armed with one of 
its thorns. These fierce children of the de¬ 
sert, whom nothing can subdue, conceive a 
sentiment full of delicacy; perhaps what they 
are unable to express by words, but they un¬ 
derstand the sentiment by the expression of 
a branch of blooming acacia. The young 
savage, like the city coquette, understands 
this seducing language, and receives blushing 
the homage of him who has won her heart by 
respect and by love. 
It is not more than a century since the fo¬ 
rests of Canada yielded us this beautiful tree. 
The botanist Robin, who first brought it us, 
gave it his name. The acacia, when spreading 
its light shade in our groves, with its scented 
