ROSE. 
113 
For beauty’s wreath, and beauty’s bloom, 
In vain would shun the withering tomb, 
Where nought is bright and nought is fair. 
Unless sweet Sharon’s Rose be there. 
Bright blossom ! of immortal bloom, 
Of fadeless hue, and sweet perfume, 
Far in the desert’s dreary waste 
In lone neglected beauty placed,— 
Let others seek the blushing bower, 
And cull the frail and fading flower, 
But I ’ll to dreariest wilds repair, 
If Sharon’s deathless Rose be there. 
When Nature’s hand with cunning car®, 
No more the opening bud shall rear, 
But, hurl’d by heaven’s avenging Sire, 
Descends the earth-consuming fire, 
And desolation’s hurrying blast, 
O’er all the sadden’d scene has past, 
There is a clime for ever fair, 
And Sharon’s Rose shall flourish there. 
