The Rose is still most rich and sweet,
And wears the crown for beauty meet.

I have basked in the beauty of southern climes,
And wandered through groves of palm and limes,
Where dark-eyed Spanish girls

Would linger in their myrtle bowers,—

With garlands rich of orange flowers
Would weave their raven curls,

And fasten 'mid their lustrous hair
The fire-fly's glittering light,

Which, brighter than the diamond's sheen,
Bursts on the dazzled sight.

But yet I would not give for these,
Produce of tropić sun and breeze—
For all the flowers in beauty there-
The Rose our northern maidens wear.
I've crossed the Andes' lofty height,
Its mountains, forest-crowned,
And 'mong the devious, tangled paths
Of tropic thickets wound.

In fair Aragua's fertile vale,

In Hayti's fields of bloom,

I've marked the prickly Cactus tribe
Its richest tints assume.

I've passed through fragrant Coffee groves,

By the tall Bucara tree,

And by the Cocoa and the Palm,

With the Trupeol warbling free;

Upon the flower-clad turf, and where

The rich Orchidia climbs in air.

But not 'mid all this gorgeous bloom,

By tropic climate wove,

Nor Florida's rich Magnolia

And fragrant Orange grove;

Nor the graceful vines of southern France,
Nor Italy's fair bowers,

Nor England's lofty domes of glass
All filled with gorgeous flowers;
Nor in our own wide prairie land,
With bud and bloom on every hand,
Is there a single flower that grows
Can vie in beauty with the Rose.

Then seek, in southern, tropic air,
And in our northern glade,

And in the bright and gay parterre,
And by the forest shade,

Where every flower, and leaf, and tree,
In graceful blending met,

Presents new beauty to the eye,

Of azure or of jet;

And take each blossom, rich and rare,
Which thou may'st find in beauty there;
Combine their color, form, and grace,
And each unpleasant tint erase;
Then recreate the loveliest flower
That e'er shed fragrance in a bower;
Let all its sweets and charms unclose;
It cannot equal yet the Rose.

S. B. P.