THE BOSE—THE MOTHER. 
45 
r I iHOTJ bidst me mark how yon lone Rose 
Rends as the wild wind o’er it blows, 
Then, meekly rising, seems to eye 
With calm submissiveness the sky, 
Though rain and tempest mingling there 
Spread universal gloom, 
To thing so fragile and so fair 
Portending certain doom. 
Yet still its soft leaves it unfolds 
Nor aught of fragrancy withholds, 
Filling with sweets the wind’s rude wing 
As though ’twere gentlest gales of spring, — 
Thus mayest thou bow the storm beneath, 
Thus meekly reascend; 
And thus may praise its incensed breath 
With sigh of sorrow blend. 
Without a bud or sheltering spray 
Yon floweret meets the tempest’s sway, 
Whilst thou in s-weet domestic bower 
Art screened in sorrow’s trying hour ; 
A husband’s kindly arm thy stay 
When cares and griefs abound, 
And buds of promise fair and gay, 
Encircling thee around. 
Buds whose young beauties wake the thought, 
With hope and promise richly fraught, 
That when their opening charms assume 
Their destined character and bloom, 
On this cold earth thou wilt not grieve 
With none to share thy sigh. 
But loved, protected, cherished live, 
And wept and honoured die. 
Mrs. Hey. 
