ROSE, MOSS. Rosa Muscosa. LANGUAGE - SUPERIOR MERIT. FONDLY the wheeling fireflies flew around her, Those little glitterers of the London night; But none of these possessed a sting to wound herShe was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight. It is sure, BYRON. Stamped by the seal of nature, that the well Ah, friend! to dazzle let the vain design; PERCIVAL. To raise the thought, and touch the heart, be thine! And unobserved the glaring orb declines. All that hath been majestical In life or death, since time began, POPE. J. R. LOWELL. ROSEBUD, MOSS. Rosa Muscosa. LANGUAGE CONFESSION OF LOVE. In my heart there is a holy spot, As 'mid the waste an isle of fount and palm, Forever green! the world's breath enters not; The passion tempest may not break its calm: 'Tis thine, all thine. "Yes!" O, it is a kind reply, MRS. HEMANS. We never speak our deepest feelings; ANON. MRS. HALE. Love has a fleeter messenger than speech, G. COLMAN, JR. ROSEBUD, WHITE. Rosa Alba. LANGUAGE-TOO YOUNG TO LOVE.. HER bosom was a soft retreat It dwelt within its circle free From tender thoughts like these, As the blossom waits the breeze, O, why delay the happy time? Then while the morn is rosy bright, Accept my earnest vow; And O, believe me, dearest maid, Gather the rosebuds while ye may; Old time is still a-flying; MRS. WELBY. P. BENJAMIN. And that same flower that blooms to-day HERRICK. ROSE, YELLOW. Rosa Lutea. LANGUAGE-WE WILL BE STRANGERS. THEY tell me 'tis decided; you depart : I used: I write in haste, and if a stain Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears; ; My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. I ask not what change Has come over thy heart; I seek not whạt chances Have doomed us to part; I know thou hast told me To love thee no more, Where I once did adore. And must we part? Well, let it be! 'Tis better thus; O, yes! believe me! For though I still was true to thee, BYRON. HOFFMAN. Thou, faithless maiden, wouldst deceive me. Take back this written pledge of love! No more I'll to my bosom fold it; The ring you gave, your faith to prove, I can't return because I've sold it. ANON. The same sweet being, bright and fair, Thou wast a flower that faded soon, A star that waned before night's noon Admiring eyes were strained to know I still remain, and cares are mine, Yet, as I weakly would repine, I think of thee; The halcyon scenes we trod of yore, Thoughts that with sweet romance ran o'er, Margery! W. DEARBORN. |