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And, as the lovely locks they meet,
To form a symbol more complete,
Lo! crisped curls their heads adorn,
Wet with the glittering dews of morn:
O! flower, with peerless gifts elate,
Like Venus, formed to captivate;
Her dazzling influence round thee flows:
Favorite of Flora! Mossy Rose.

Now Bacchus gathers from the ground,
The purple gems his brows that crowned;
And now a roseat branch he crops,
Then bathes the sprigs with ruby drops,
Distilling from the nect'reous wine,
And bids them with its clusters twine;
Thus, thus, we find the Damask Rose,
The ruddy flush of Bacchus shows.

To seize the trophies of the bush,
Next see the god of battles rush;
As from the trembling tree he tears
His sternly-smiling forehead bears
Their tender stems. Oh, haste too fierce!
The vengeful thorns his temples pierce!
And with his blood, the flowers retain
The entwisting laurel's sanguine stain:
Sweet spoil of Mars, the Blood-red Rose,
Arrayed in deep-dy'd crimson grows.
The festive deities convene,

While Phoebus smiles upon the scene;
Who, till his sister rules the hours,
Loitering amid Love's rosy bowers,
Each flower with ardent gaze inspects;
And all admires, yet none selects:
But waits till she shall fix her choice,
And hails her with fraternal voice:

At length, withdrawn his piercing light,
Enveloped in the shades of night,
Wit, and convivial Mirth dance round,
And Harmony's sweet songs resound;
Till, whelmed in bacchanalian roar,
Alas! her voice is heard no more:
See jealous Clamour! Uproar wild!
Where lately Peace, with Pleasure smiled:
The affrighted nymph from earth is driven,
And flies, on trembling wings to Heaven!
Pale Dian, peeping from the woods,
Eyes the bright goddess of the floods,
With half-averted looks askance;
Ashamed to meet her wanton glance;
And shocked, the plant of plants to see
Consigned to War and Revelry,
An infant bud, with gentle hand
She plucks, and there its leaves expand:
Behold, it feels her snowy breast!
And like the spotless lily drest,

With chastened charms the flow'ret blows,
Her virgin-type, the White-clad Rose.
Anon, with sylvan foliage bound,
Its stems her brow encircle round;
Yet, on that modest brow serene,
A glance from beauty's amorous queen,
Suffuses soft its pallid face,

From whence the Maiden's Blush we tracé.
Even whilst her pearly buds absorb
The silvery streams of Luna's orb,
Oft Venus tempers from afar,

Its cold beams with her glowing star';
And thus, tho' seeming to contend,
Cynthia and Cytherea blend;

And purity and love unite,
In motley streaks of red and white:
Hence does the Variegated Rose
Its party-coloured garb disclose.

Thee, royal rose! all, all admire;
Yet still we love the humble brier;
Like her own simple wood-nymphs wild,
The huntress rears the adopted child;
It ornaments their verdant haunts
Amid the forest's towering plants :
The cultured flower Diana chose,
Her Dryads wear the Rustic-Rose.

Now, as the meek-eyed Moon retreats,
Her brother's kindling glance she meets;
And from her argent buds bestows
New honours for his heavenly brows;
Who, a tiara as he wreathes,

On each celestial odours breathes;
And, in return, their fragrant sighs,
Like incense to the God arise!
The flowery constellation bright,
Spangling his diadem of light,
Reflects Apollo's glorious blaze,
And drinks the spirit of his rays;
Terrestrial star! the Yellow Rose
With Sol's own golden colour glows.
Then, thus, the patron of the lyre:
Blest Rose! thy charms the gods inspire!
And, mingled with the living bays,
Add lustre to their shining sprays!
Sweet paragon of Flora's tribe,
Whose leaves empyreal tints imbibe ;
Where'er my beams illume the clime,
Still flourish through the bounds of Time;

And honoured by the immortals be,
But chief, by Love and Poesy!
Phoebus, whose liquid light divine
Has laved the yellow eglantine*;
Bids in one splendid group combin'd,
Thy varying offspring be entwined;
O Rose! in all thy divers hues,
Exhaustless subject of the Muse;
Nor less shall Painting, sister-art,
Delight thy semblance to impart ;
While union's magic power bestows
New charms to grace each rival rose!

PSYCHE.

SONG.

AH! will those hours again return,
My joy, my bliss to prove;
Or must this heart for ever mourn
The object of its love?

Far o'er yon hills, in distant lands,
My thoughts with fondness rove;
Far o'er those hills I send my sighs,
To one I dearly love.

At evening's close, at parting day,
I watch the sun-beam move,
That seeks the land so far away,

Where dwells my dearest love.

W. G.

*Not the Eglantine, commonly so called, but the Rosa eglanteria

of Linnæus.

VERSES

On the early Death of a young Lady's Linnet, which she had taken from the Nest.

THROUGH lowering clouds, with pallid beam,
The moon shot temporary light,
Now glittering on the rippled stream,
Now slowly fading from the sight;

The clock struck twelve-when twittering shrill,
Linnetta to the window flew ;

There thrice she pecked, with tiny bill,
Thrice, fluttering, brushed the evening dew.

Fair Sally waked, her favourite spyed,
And, throbbing, with impatient haste,
Forth from her downy couch she hied,
To lure the songster to her breast.

"Livest thou again ?" exclaimed the maid,
"Or does fond fancy paint thy form;
Or art thou but a fleeting shade,

That, reckless, views life's pelting storm ?"

"On airy wing," the bird replied,
"Swift as the lightening's flash I fly,
Henceforth to mortal touch denied,
I share the pure empyreal sky.

"Forth from that happy land I come,

Where shadows skim the fairy grove,
Those blissful scenes beyond the tomb,
Where all our life is joy and love.

VOL. VIII.

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