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lu the deep heart of the rose,
Sheds a ray,
Come away !
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 festivi. ties, 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,
'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 higli, 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! 0, 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 dressid, 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,
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
HERRICK. Its beautiful tint is traced to another source by a modern poet:
As erst, in Eden's blissful bowers,
CAREY. The origin of that exquisitely beautiful variety, the Moss Rose, is thus fancifully accounted
The Angel of the Flowers, one day,