





814 MISS F. M. CGAULKINS. 
Soft were its hues—’twas love’s, twas beauty’s own, 
The favorite of the hall, the field, the bower; 
A. Rose in which a radiant spirit shone— 
Not the frail queen of thorn, and leaf, and flower. 
A graft it was from Sharon’s beauteous Rose, 
Nursed with the gentlest dews of Palestine: 
A mind, a heart, a glory, a repose, 
Beamed from its depths and showed the root divine, 
Rude storms, and persecution’s deadly hail, 
Beat on its head, yet lovelier it became: 
So oaks grow strong while wrestling with the gale ; 
So glows the molten silver in the flame. 
The ripening blossom opened rich and fair, 
And filled with sweetness all the winds around; 
A mail-clad warrior, struck with charms so rare, 
This Rose of beauty to his bosom bound. 
I saw it on the Mayflower’s sacred floor, 
Beneath the banner “G'od with us,” recline: 
That deck the sifted wheat of kingdoms bore, 
There in its embryo lay New England’s vine. 
Behold the group: the parting pang is past; 
They launch their lonely fortunes on the sea; 
Back to the land the soul’s last fetters cast, 
And with the free winds join their anthems free. 

‘ 
ee hee 
