



FLORAL POESY. 
The rose, the lovely leaved, | 
Round our brows be weaved, abc 
Genially laughing. 
‘* Oh, the rose, the first of flowers, 
Darling of the early bowers, 
H’en the gods for thee have places ; 
Thee, too, Cytherea’s boy 
Weaves about his locks for joy, 
Dancing with the Graces. 
The short life of this queenly flower causes it, when ; 
fading, to be deemed a suitable representative of fleeting 
beauty, and many are the “‘morals” that the poets 
have deduced from its brief existence; but there is 
another record to be made, and that is of its fragrance 
after death: the flush of beauty may be gone from its 
withered petals, but the scent of the rose will cling to 
it still; and so, even when life is over, we yet place, as 
Barry Cornwall says : 
** First of all the rose, because its breath 
Is rich beyond the rest ; and when it dies, 
It doth bequeath a charm to sweeten death.” 
‘¢The heart doth recognize thee, 
Alone, alone ! the heart doth smell thee sweet, 
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete, 
Perceiving all those changes that disguise thee. 
Yes, and the heart doth owe thee, 
More love, dead rose, than to any roses bold, 
Which Julia wears at dances, smiling cold ! 
Lie still upon this heart, which breaks below thee !” 
Mrs. Brownine. 
“* Love is like a rose, 
And a month it may not see 
Hre it withers where it grows.”—BAILEY. 
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