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THE WINTER ROSE.
Hail, and farewell, thou lovely guest!
I may not woo thy stay,
Are fading fast away,
And melt in misty grey.
The Angel of the flowers one day, Beneath a rose-tree sleeping Jay, That spirit to whom charge is given To bathe young buds in dews of heaven; Awaking from his light repose, The angel whispered to the rose : “O fondest object of my care “ Still fairest found, where all are fair; “ For the sweet shade thou givest to me, “ Ask what thou wilt 'tis granted thee !" “Then,” said the rose, with deepened glow, “ On me another grace bestow!"The spirit pavsed in silent thought, What grace was there that flower had not? 'Twas but a moment-o'er the rose A veil of moss the angel throws, And robed in nature's simplest weed, Could there a flower that rose exceed?
It was but now thy radiant smile
Broke ubrough the season's gloom, As bending I inbaled awbile
Thy breathing of perfume, And traced on every silken leaf A tale of summer, sweet and brief,
And sudden as thy doom.
Or mornings, when the wild bee's wing
Shook dew-drops from thy sparkling cell!
In April's bower thy sweets are breathed,
And June beholds thy blossoms fair; In Autumn's chaplet thou art wreathed,
And round December's forehead bare.
With thee the graceful lily vied,
As summer breezes waved her head, And now the snow-drop at thy side
Meekly contrasts thy cheerful red.
And how she veils her flowers when he is
T'is thine to hear each varying voice,
That marks the seasons sad or gay; The summer thrush bids thee rejoice,
And wintry robin's dearer lay.
Sweet flower l'how happy dost thou seem
'Mid parching heat, 'mid nipping frost : While gathering beauty from each beam,
No bue, no grace of thine is lost !
Thus Hope, 'mid life's severest days,
Still smiles, still triumphs o'er despair : Alike she lives in Pleasure's rays,
And cold Afiction's winter air.
With drooping bells of clearest blue The bosom's Everlasting Rose!
Thou didst attract my childish view,
So lightly trembling.
Where feathery fern, and golden broom,
Increase the sand-rock cavern's gloom, When with a serious musing I behold, I've seen thee tangled, The grateful and obsequious marygold, 'Mid tufts of purple heather bloom, How duly, every morning, she displays By vain Arachne's treacherous loom, Her open breast when Phoebus spreads his With dew-drops spangled.
rays; Huw she observes him in his daily walk, Mid ruins tumbling to decay, Still bending tow'rds bim her small slender Thy flowers their heavenly hues display, stalk;
Still freshly springing; How, when he down declines, she droops Where pride and pomp have pass'd away, and mourns,
On mossy tomb and tarret gray, Bedew'd, as 'twere with tears, will he returns ; Like friendship clinging.
One morning she saw, on the opposite side,
She tires of her vesture, and swelling with spleen,
The Primrose good-homour'd replied, “ If you knew
And, better instructed, can tell you his tale)
“To stay near him long would be fading or death,