ORIGIN OF THE THORNY RED ROSE. LEGEND OF THE ROSE Ah, lady! list my tale, Was snowy as its mother's bosom, Young love rambling through the wood, Bright with dew and freshly blown, But placed upon my slender stem The poisoned sting she plucked from them, AUTUMN. NATHANIEL A. HAVEN. Autumn! I love thy bower, Autumn! I love thee well, Though bleak thy breezes blow; I love to see the vapors rise, And clouds roll wildly round the skies, When from the plains the mountains swell, And foaming torrents flow. Autumn! thy fading flowers Droop but to bloom again; So man, though doomed to grief awhile, Shall glow in heaven with nobler powers, Tell her that wastes her time on me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied, In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die, that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee; How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair. Yet, though thou fade, From thy dead leaves let fragrance rise; And teach the maid That goodness time's rude hand defies; That virtue lives when beauty dies. To a Snowdrop appearing very early in the Season. WORDSWORTH. Lone flowers, hemmed in with snows, and white as they, But hardier far, though modestly thou bend Whose zeal outruns his promise! Blue-eyed May Yet will I not thy gentle grace forget, Chaste snowdrop, vent'rous harbinger of spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years. First in bright Flora's train Galantha glows, DAUVIN. FLOWERS LOVE'S TRUEST LANGUAGE. PARK BENJAMIN Flowers are love's truest language; they betray, Like the divining rods of Magi old, Where priceless wealth lies buried, not of gold, But love, strong love, that never can decay. I send thee flowers, O dearest, and I deem That from their petals thou wilt hear sweet words, Whose music, clearer than the voice of birds, When breathed to thee alone, perchance, may seem All eloquent of feelings unexpressed. O, wreathe them in those tresses of dark hair, And on thy bosom's yielding snow be pressed; Thus shall thy fondness for my flowers reveal The love that maiden coyness would conceal. THE DESERTED. Lay a garland on my hearse, Maidens, willow-branches bear, Say I diéd true. My love was false, but I was firm, From my hour of birth; Upon my buried body lie Lightly, gentle earth. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. |