'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that | Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist, With which thou paintest Nature's wide-spread hall, What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all! FROM "HASSAN BEN KHALED." THEN took the generous host A basket filled with roses. Every guest Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for His words to all: "He who exalts them most pleasure; In song, he only shall the roses wear." When from her face the bridegroom lifts the veil." 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, To weep for the buds it had left with regret, I hastily seized it, unfit as it was For a nosegay, so dripping and drowned, And such, I exclaimed, is the pitiless part 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, 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 Alas! you have not known that shower Nor felt the unkind Who think it strange to see Speak, whimp'ring younglings, and make known Ye droop and weep; Or that ye have not seen as yet Or brought a kiss From that sweet heart to this? - 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 While every bleaching breeze that on her blows 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, RALPH WALDO EMERSON. THE BROOM-FLOWER. O, THE broom, the yellow broom! And dear it is on summer days I know the realms where people say I know where they shine out like suns, I know where ladies live enchained And flowers as bright as glittering gems But ne'er was flower so fair as this, In modern days or olden; STAR of the mead! sweet daughter of the day, JOHN LEYDEN. |