









The Aoseduy, 
Keble, 
\ HEN Nature tries her finest touch, 
Weaving her vernal wreath, 
Mark ye; how close she veils her round, 
Not ‘to be traced by sight or sound, 
Nor soiled by ruder breath ? 
Who ever 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 ? 
Fondly we seek the dawnmg 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. 



