When from her face the bridegroom lifts the veil."
When all had sung their songs, I, Hassan, tried.
"The rose," I sang, "is either red or pale,
Like maidens whom the flame of passion burns,
And love or jealousy controls, by turns.
Its buds are lips preparing for a kiss ;
Its open flowers are like the blush of bliss
On lovers' cheeks; the thorns its armor are,
And in its center shines a golden star,
As on a favorite's cheek a sequin glows;-
And thus the garden's favorite is the rose."
The master from his open basket shook
The roses on my head.

THE ROSE.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

THE rose had been washed, just washed in a shower,

Which Mary to Anna conveyed, The plentiful moisture encumbered the flower, And weighed down its beautiful head.

The cup was all filled, and the leaves were all wet,
And it seemed, to a fanciful view,

To weep for the buds it had left with regret,
On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seized it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned,
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapped it, it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resigned.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloomed with its owner awhile; And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be followed perhaps by a smile.

WILLIAM COWPER.

THE MOSS ROSE.

THE angel of the flowers, one day,
Beneath a rose-tree sleeping lay,
That spirit to whose charge 't 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 giv'st to me Ask what thou wilt, 't is granted thee." "Then," said the rose, with deepened glow, "On me another grace bestow."

Who were but born

Just as the modest morn
Teemed her refreshing dew?

Alas! you have not known that shower
That mars a flower,

Nor felt the unkind
Breath of a blasting wind;
Nor are ye worn with years,
Or warped as we,

Who think it strange to see
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young,
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue.

Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known
The reason why

Ye droop and weep;
Is it for want of sleep,
Or childish lullaby?

Or that ye have not seen as yet
The violet?

Or brought a kiss

From that sweet heart to this?
No, no; this sorrow shown

-

By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read, "That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought

forth."

ROBERT HERRICK.

In this low vale the promise of the year, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity; in some lone walk
Of life she rears her head,
Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,
And hardens her to bear
Serene the ills of life.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE,

THE RHODORA.

LINES ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?

IN May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook: The purple petals fallen in the pool

Made the black waters with their beauty gay, Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why

This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then beauty is its own excuse for being.

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose !

I never thought to ask; I never knew,
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The selfsame Power that brought me there brought
you.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

THE BROOM-FLOWER.

O, THE broom, the yellow broom!
The ancient poet sung it,

And dear it is on summer days
To lie at rest among it.

I know the realms where people say
The flowers have not their fellow;

I know where they shine out like suns,
The crimson and the yellow.

I know where ladies live enchained
In luxury's silken fetters,

And flowers as bright as glittering gems
Are used for written letters.

But ne'er was flower so fair as this, In modern days or olden;

STAR of the mead! sweet daughter of the day,
Whose opening flower invites the morning ray,
From the moist cheek and bosom's chilly fold
To kiss the tears of eve, the dew-drops cold!
Sweet daisy, flower of love! when birds are paired,
'T is sweet to see thee, with thy bosom bared,
Smiling in virgin innocence serene,
Thy pearly crown above thy vest of green.
The lark with sparkling eye and rustling wing
Rejoins his widowed mate in early spring,
And, as he prunes his plumes of russet hue,
Swears on thy maiden blossom to be true.
Oft have I watched thy closing buds at eve,
Which for the parting sunbeams seemed to grieve;
And when gay morning gilt the dew-bright plain,
Seen them unclasp their folded leaves again;
Nor he who sung "The daisy is so sweet!"
More dearly loved thy pearly form to greet,
When on his scarf the knight the daisy bound,
And dames to tourneys shone with daisies crowned,
And fays forsook the purer fields above,
To hail the daisy, flower of faithful love.

JOHN LEYDEN.