













THE BOUQUET. 
ROSE — DAMANK. 
RosA DAMASCENA. 
Bashful Love. 
Brrore the winning breeze could steal 
Morn’s sprinkled pearl-drops frorn the rose, 
I culled it, that it might reveal 
The tale my lips dare not disclose. 
Its leaves of virgin tenderness, — 
Where I have pressed a kiss for thee, — 
Its blush of maiden bashfulness, 
Both tell of love and secrecy. 
F. S. Hit. 
Tus speaking rose 
Becomes a token. fit to tell 
Of things that words can ne’er disclose, 
And nought but this reveal so well. 
Then take my flower, and let its leaves 
Beside thy heart be cherished near, 
While that confiding heart receives 
The thought it whispers to thine ear. 
TOKEN. 

