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I love the sweet lily, so pure and so pale, 
With a bosom as fair as the new-fallen snows ; 
Her luxuriant odours she spreads through the vale, 
Yet e’en she must yield to my pretty moss rose. 
Oh! I love the gay heart’s ease, and violet blue, 
The sun-flower and blue-bell, each floweret that 
blows, 
The fir-tree, the pine-tree, acacia, and yew, 
Yet e’en these must yield to my pretty moss rose. 
Yes, [love my moss rose, for it ne’er had a thorn, 
*Tis the type of life’s pleasures, unmix’d with its 
woes; 
*Tis more gay, and more bright, than the opening 
morn— | 
Yes, all things must yield to my pretty moss rose. | 
PLATONIC LOVE. 
ACACIA. 
TuE savages of America have consecrated the 
acacia to the genius of chaste love; their bows 
are made from the incorruptible wood of this | 
tree, their arrows are armed with one of its 
thorns. These fierce children of the desert, | 
whom nothing can subdue, conceive a sentiment 
full of delicacy ; perhaps what they are unable 
to express by words, but they understand the 
sentiment by the expression of a branch of 

