ROSE.

LOVE.

WHO that ever could sing has not sung the Rose! The poets have not exaggerated its beauty, or completed its panegyric. They have called it daughter of heaven, ornament of the earth, glory of spring but what expressions could ever do justice to the charms of this beautiful flower! Look at it gracefully rising from its elegant foliage, surrounded by its numerous buds: you would say that this queen of flowers sports with the air which fans her; that she decorates herself with the dew-drops which impearl her; that she smilingly meets the sunny rays which expand her bosom. Nature seems to have exhausted all her skill in the freshness, the beauty of form, the fragrance, the delicate colour, and the gracefulness, which she has bestowed upon the Rose. And then, it embellishes the whole earth; it is the commonest of flowers.

The emblem of all ages, the interpreter of all our feelings, the Rose mingles with our festivities, our joys, and our griefs. Modesty borrows its delicate blush; it is given as the prize of virtue; it is the image of youth, innocence, and pleasure; it is consecrated to Venus, the goddess of beauty, and, like her, possesses a grace more exquisite than beauty itself.

Anacreon, the poet of love, has celebrated the Rose in an ode, thus rendered by our English Anacreon:

While we invoke the wreathed spring,
Resplendent Rose! to thee we'll sing;
Resplendent Rose! the flower of flowers,
Whose breath perfumes Olympus' bowers;
Whose virgin blush, of chasten'd dye,
Enchants so much our mortal eye.
Oft has the poet's magic tongue
The Rose's fair luxuriance sung;
And long the Muses, heavenly maids,
Have rear'd it in their tuneful shades.
When, at the early glance of morn,
It sleeps upon the glittering thorn,
'Tis sweet to dare the tangled fence,
To cull the timid flow'ret thence,
And wipe, with tender hand, away
The tear that on its blushes lay!

'Tis sweet to hold the infant stems,
Yet dropping with Aurora's gems,
And fresh inhale the spicy sighs
That from the weeping buds arise.
When revel reigns, when mirth is hight,
And Bacchus beams in every eye,
Our rosy fillets scent exhale,
And fill with balm the fainting gale!
Oh, there is nought in nature bright
Where Roses do not shed their light!
When morning paints the orient skies,
Her fingers burn with roseate dyes.
And when, at length, with pale decline,
Its florid beauties fade and pine,
Sweet as in youth, its balmy breath
Diffuses odour e'en in death!

O, whence could such a plant have sprung?
Attend-for thus the tale is sung;-
When humid from the silvery stream,
Effusing beauty's warmest beam,
Venus appeared in flushing hues,
Mellowed by Ocean's briny dews;
When, in the starry courts above,
The pregnant brain of mighty Jove
Disclosed the nymph of azure glance —
The nymph who shakes the martial lance--
Then, then, in strange eventful hour,
The earth produced an infant flower,
Which sprung with blushing tinctures dress'd,
And wanton'd o'er its parent breast.
The gods beheld this brilliant birth,
And hailed the Rose, the boon of earth!

With nectar drops, a ruby tide,

The sweetly orient buds they dyed,
And bade them bloom, the flowers divine
Of him who sheds the teeming vine;
And bade them on the spangled thorn
Expand their bosoms to the morn.

According to ancient Fable, the red colour of the Rose may be traced to Venus, whose delicate foot, when she was hastening to the relief of her beloved Adonis, was pierced by a thorn, that drew blood,

Which on the White Rose being shed
Made it for ever after red.

HERRICK.

Its beautiful tint is traced to another source

by a modern poet:

As erst, in Eden's blissful bowers,

Young Eve survey'd her countless flowers,
An opening Rose of purest white
She mark'd with eye that beam'd delight,
Its leaves she kiss'd, and straight it drew
From beauty's lip the vermeil hue.

CAREY.

The origin of that exquisitely beautiful variety, the Moss Rose, is thus fancifully accounted for:

The Angel of the Flowers, one day,
Beneath a Rose Tree sleeping lay,

L