FLORA’S ALBUM. 
Rose. 
“Proud be the rose, with rains and dews 
Her head impearling.” — Worpsworvts. 
BEAUTY. 
Isee her now. How more than beautiful 
She paces yon broad terrace! The free wind 
Has lifted the soft curls from off her cheek, 
Which yet it crimsons not, — the pure, the pale, — 
Like a young saint. How delicately carved 
The Grecian outline of her face! — but touched 
With a more spiritual beauty, and more meek, 
Her large blue eyes are raised up to the heavens, 
Whose hues they wear, and seem to grow more clear 
As the heart fills them. There, those parted lips, — 
Prayer could but give such voiceless eloquence, — 
Shining like snow her clasped and earnest hands, — 
She seems a dedicated nun, whose heart 
Is God’s own altar. 










L. HE. LANDON. 
Whatsoe’er of Beauty 
Yearns and yet reposes, 
Blush, and bosom, and sweet breath, 
Took a shape in roses. 
Lziqno Hunt. 


















































