When from her face the bridegroom lifts the veil.'
When all had sung their songs, I, Hassan, tried.
"The rose," I sang, "is either red or pale,
Like maidens whom the flame of passion burns,
And love or jealousy controls, by turns.
Its buds are lips preparing for a kiss ;
Its open flowers are like the blush of bliss
On lovers' cheeks; the thorns its armor are,
And in its center shines a golden star,
As on a favorite's cheek a sequin glows;
And thus the garden's favorite is the rose."
The master from his open basket shook
The roses on my head.

THE ROSE.

BAYARD TAYLOR.

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN.

THOU blossom, bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night;

Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple dressed,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged Year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue-blue-as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to heaven as I depart.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE PRIMROSE.

Ask me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the yeere?

Ask me why I send to you

This Primrose, thus bepearled with dew? I will whisper to your eares,

The sweets of love are mixt with tears.

Ask me why this flower does show So yellow-green and sickly too? Ask me why the stalk is weak And bending, yet it doth not break? I will answer, these discover What fainting hopes are in a lover.

ROBERT HERRICK.

THE EARLY PRIMROSE.

MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms And cradled in the winds.

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Win

ter's sway,

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw

To mark his victory.

In this low vale the promise of the year, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity; in some lone walk
Of life she rears her head,
Obscure and unobserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear
Serene the ills of life.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

THE RHODORA.

LINES ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?

IN May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook: The purple petals fallen in the pool

Made the black waters with their beauty gay, Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why

This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then beauty is its own excuse for being.

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose !

I never thought to ask; I never knew,
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The selfsame Power that brought me there brought
you.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

THE BROOM-FLOWER.

O, THE broom, the yellow broom!
The ancient poet sung it,

And dear it is on summer days
To lie at rest among it.

I know the realms where people say
The flowers have not their fellow;

I know where they shine out like suns,
The crimson and the yellow.

I know where ladies live enchained
In luxury's silken fetters,
And flowers as bright as glittering gems
Are used for written letters.

But ne'er was flower so fair as this, In modern days or olden;

STAR of the mead! sweet daughter of the day,
Whose opening flower invites the morning ray,
From the moist cheek and bosom's chilly fold
To kiss the tears of eve, the dew-drops cold!
Sweet daisy, flower of love! when birds are paired,
"T is sweet to see thee, with thy bosom bared,
Smiling in virgin innocence serene,
Thy pearly crown above thy vest of green.
The lark with sparkling eye and rustling wing
Rejoins his widowed mate in early spring,
And, as he prunes his plumes of russet hue,
Swears on thy maiden blossom to be true.
Oft have I watched thy closing buds at eve,
Which for the parting sunbeams seemed to grieve;
And when gay morning gilt the dew-bright plain,
Seen them unclasp their folded leaves again;
Nor he who sung "The daisy is so sweet!"
More dearly loved thy pearly form to greet,
When on his scarf the knight the daisy bound,
And dames to tourneys shone with daisies crowned,
And fays forsook the purer fields above,
To hail the daisy, flower of faithful love.

JOHN LEYDEN.

But this bold floweret climbs the hill,
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen,
Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps round the fox's den.
Within the garden's cultured round
It shares the sweet carnation's bed;
And blooms on consecrated ground
In honor of the dead.

The lambkin crops its crimson gem;
The wild bee murmurs on its breast;
The blue-fly bends its pensile stem
Light o'er the skylark's nest.

"Tis Flora's page,
in every place,
In every season, fresh and fair;
It opens with perennial grace,
And blossoms everywhere.