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THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
Will that clime enfold thee 
With immortal air ? 
Shall we not behold thee 
Bright and deathless there ? 
In spirit-lustre clothed, transcendent; y more fair! 
Yea ! my fancy sees thee 
In that light disclose, 
And its dream thus frees thee 
From the mist of woes, 
Darkening thine earthly bowers, 0 bridal, royal 
rose. 
THE ROSE, 
FROM BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 
Of all flowers. 
Methinks a rose is best. 
It is the very emblem of a maid; 
For when the west wind courts her gently, 
How modestly she blows, and paints the sun 
Y* ith her chaste blushes ! When the north comes 
near her, 
Rude and impatient, then, like chastity, 
She locks her beauties in her bud again, 
And leases him to base briers. 
