
126 The Poetry of Flowers. 

THE ROSE-BUD. 
BY KEBLE. 
WHEN Nature tries her finest touch, 
Waving her vernal wreath, | 
Mark ye how close she veils her round, | 
Not to be traced by sight or sound, 
Nor soiled by ruder breath? 
Whoever saw the earliest Rose 
First open her sweet breast? 
Or, when the summer sun goes down, 
The first soft star in evening’s crown 
Light up her gleaming crest? 
a 
Fondly we seek the dawning bloom 
On features wan and fair,— 
The gazing eye no change can trace, 
But look away a little space, 
Then turn, and lo! 'tis there. 
But there’s a sweeter flower than e’er 
Blushed on the rosy spray— 
A brighter star, a richer bloom, 
Than e’er did western heaven illume 
At close of summer day. 
Tis love, the last best gift of heaven ; 
Love gentle, holy, pure: 
But tenderer than a dove’s soft eye, 
The searching sun, the open sky, 
She never could endure. 
Even human love will shrink from sight 
Here in the coarse, rude earth: 
How then should rash intruding glance 
Break in upon her sacred trance, 
Who boasts a heavenly birth? 



