SWEET is she that lo'es me,
As dew i' simmer weeping
In tears the Rosebuds steeping.

Burns.

ROSEBUD by my early walk,
Adown a corn enclosed bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
In a' its crimson glory spread,

And drooping rich the dewy head,

It scents the early morning.

Burns.

I' lightsome heart I pu'd a Rose
Frae aff its thorny tree,

And my fause luver staw the Rose,
But left the thorn wi' me.

Burns.

LL pu' the budding Rose, when
Phoebus peeps in vain,

For it's like a balmy kiss o' her sweet

mou;

Burns.

TO MISS CRUIKSHANK, A VERY YOUNG

LADY.

EAUTEOUS Rose-bud, young and

gay,

Blooming in thy early May,

Never may'st thou, lovely flower,

Chilly shrink in sleety shower;

Never Boreas' hoary path,

Never Eurus' poisonous breath,
Never baleful stellar lights,

Taint thee with untimely blights!

Never, never reptile thief

Riot on thy virgin leaf!

Nor ever Sol too fiercely view

Thy bosom blushing still with dew!

May'st thou long, sweet crimson gem, Richly deck thy native stem;

Till some evening, sober, calm,
Dropping dews and breathing balm,
While all around the woodland rings,
And every bird thy requiem sings,
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,

Shed thy dying honours round,

And resign to parent earth

The loveliest form she e'er gave birth.

Burns.

OR there the Rose on crag and vale
Sultana to the nightingale,

Blooms, blushing to her lover's tale, His queen, his garden queen, his Rose.

Burns?

EANTIME the clouds, imprest with

livelier beams,

Roll, in the lucid track of air,

Array'd in colour'd brede, with semblances

more fair.

The airy troop, as on they sail, Thus the pensive stranger hail : "In the pure and argent sky,

There our distant chambers lie;

The bed is strew'd with blushing Roses
When Quietude at eve reposes,

Oft trembling, lest her bowers should fade
In the cold earth's humid shade."

William Lisle Bowles.

1762-1850.

MELLOW light through the dim covert strayed,

And opening Roses canopied the

HERE fair Seville's Morisco turrets gleam

On Guadalquivir's gently-stealing

stream;

Whose silent waters seaward as they glide

Reflect the wild-Rose thickets on its side.

Bowles.

HE tear down childhood's cheek

that flows

Is like the dew-drop on the Rose, When next the summer breeze comes by, The bush, the leaf, the flower is dry.

Sir Walter Scott.

1771-1832.

HE Rose is fairest when 'tis budding

new,

And hope is brightest when it dawns

from fears;

The Rose is sweetest washed with morning

dew,

And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears.
O wilding Rose, whom fancy thus endears,
I bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave,
Emblem of hope and love through future

years!

Sir Walter Scott.

("Lady of the Lake," Canto IV.)