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the poetry of flowers. 
Where morning paints the orient skies, 
Her fingers Jmrnwith.roseate dyes! 
And when, at length, with pale decline, 
its iiorrd beauties fade and pine, 
Sweet as in youth its balmy breath 
Diffuses odour e’en in death ! 
O whence could such a plant have sprung? 
Attend—for th,us the tale is sung : — 
When humid from the silvery stream, 
Effusing beauty’s warmest beam, 
Venus appeared in flushing hues,’ 
Mellowed by Ocean’s briny dew's ; 
When, in the starry courts above,’ 
The pregnant brain of mighty Jove 
Disclosed the nymph of azure glance! 
1 he nymph who shakes the martial lance! 
Ihen, then, m strange eventful.hour, 
1 he earth produced an infant flower, 
Which sprung with blushing tincture’s dress’J, 
And wanton’d o’er its parent breast. 
The gods beheld this brilliant birth, 
And hail’d the Rose, the boon of earth 
With nectar drops, a ruby tide. 
The sweetly orient buds thev dyed, 
And bade them bloom, the flowers divine 
a i™ wh0 s ^ e< ^ s the teeming vine; 
And bade them on the spangled thorn 
Expand their bosoms to the morn. 
