ROSE. 
It breathes of love; it blooms the guest 
Of Venus’ ever-fragrant breast ; 
In gaudy pomp its petals spread ; 
Light foliage trembles round its head ; 
With vermeil blossoms fresh and fair 
It laughs to the voluptuous air. 
THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 
BY T. MOORE. 
°*T1s the last Rose of summer 
Left blooming alone, 
All her lovely companions 
Are faded and gone ; 
No flower of her kindred, 
No Rosebud is nigh, 
To reflect back her blushes 
And give sigh for sigh. 
Tl not leave thee, thou lone one, 
To pine on the stem ; 
Since the lovely are sleeping, 
Go sleep thou with them. 
Thus kindly I scatter 
Thy leaves on the bed, 
Where thy mates of the garden 
Lie scentless and dead. 
So soon may I follow 
When friendships decay, 
And from love’s shining circle 
The gems drop away ; 

