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THE ROSE.
IN yonder leafy bower
Maiden plucks a rose.
Loveliest little flower,
Thou my fate disclose!
If the lonely evening star,
Glimmering in the west,
On a living rosebud shine,
Hope may swell thy breast.
But if the golden sunset
See me pine and die,
Ruined art thou, lovely maid;-
Who can tell me why?
In that rosy bower
Cupid oft is seen;
Cunning little archer,
He can tell, I ween.
A. L. H.
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