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LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS, 
The origin of that exquisitely beautiful variety, 
the Moss Rose, is thus fancifully accounted for: 
The Angel of the Flowers, one day, 
Beneath a Rose Tree sleeping lay. 
That Spirit to whose charge is given 
To bathe young buds in dews from heaven. 
Awaking from his high repose, 
The Angel whispered to the Rose: 
“O fondest object of my care. 
Still fairest found where all are fair. 
For the sweet shade thou’st given to me. 
Ask what thou wilt, ’tis granted thee.’’ 
Then said the Rose, with deepening glow, 
“On me another grace bestow.” 
The Spirit paused in silent thought — 
What grace was there that flower had not! 
’Twas but a moment — o’er the Rose 
A veil of moss the Angel throws ; 
And robed in Nature’s simplest weed, 
Could there a flower that Rose exceed! 
Pfeffel, a German poet, has pleasingly accounted 
for the origin of the Yellow Rose, the emblem of 
envy, in the following manner : 
Once a White Rose bud reared her head, 
And peevishly to Flora said, 
“ Look at my sister’s blushing hue — 
Pray, mother, let me have it too.” 
