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 The original of this book is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924089422038 
 
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Phyllanthography 
 
SAMUEL A. BINION 
 
$i)pnantf)osrapf)p 
 
 A METHOD OF 
 
 Leaf and Flower Writing 
 
 BY 
 
 SAMUEL A. BINION 
 
 Author of "Ancient Egypt 
 or Mizraim," "The Kab- 
 balah," etc., etc. v» ">• 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 AND A 
 
 Basket of Choice Roses" 
 
 R. F. FENNO & COMPANY 
 
 18 EAST SEVENTEENTH STREET, NEW YORK 
 
Copyright, 1909 
 By SAMUEL A. BINION 
 
 PHYLLANTHOCRAPHY 
 
To Mrs. Mary C. Parrish 
 
 of 
 JVilkesbarre, PenrCa 
 
 this book is most respectfully inscribed 
 
 by the author 
 
L 
 
 Kuoyeoci'h 
 
mimmm m: 
 
 
 Introduction 
 
 BEFORE entering upon the subject of 
 " Phyllanthography," z. e., a method 
 of leaf and flower writing, I deem it 
 necessary to state briefly how and when I 
 came to make of it a matter of trial and 
 study. 
 
 Twenty years ago, after an informal talk 
 on Ancient Egypt, at the residence of Mr, 
 Charles Dohme, Baltimore, Md., I was re- 
 quested by the audience to explain how and 
 by whom the key to the deciphering of the 
 picture-writing of the ancient Egyptians was 
 discovered; also to impart to them such 
 knowledge as I possessed regarding the 
 origin of our own alphabet. The first ques- 
 tion I answered to the best of my ability. As 
 to the origin of the Alphabet I remarked as 
 below. 
 
 " The word ' alphabet,' our own ABC, 
 contains the proof, within itself, that it 
 is of Semitic origin. The Greek alpha 
 
 ■^^^^j^l^ 
 
(A a), corresponding to our a, is from the 
 Phcenician Aleph, formed from the hiero- 
 glyphic of an ox's head ; the second Greek let- 
 ter, beta (^ /J)=b, is from the Phcenician, beth, 
 meaning a house ; the third Greek letter, gam- 
 ma (y)=zg, from the Phoenician Gimal (Heb. 
 Gimel), a camel ; delta (J 5)=d, is from the 
 Phoenician daleth, meaning a door ; etc. But 
 picture-writing did not originate with the 
 Semitic nations ; the Phoenicians copied it 
 from the Egyptian hieroglyphics. In short, 
 to borrow the words of Isaac Taylor,' ' It (pic- 
 ture-writing) was begun by the Egyptians, 
 continued by the Semites, and finally perfected 
 by the Greeks.' 
 
 " The Egyptians believed that the art of writ- 
 ing was of divine origin. They claimed that 
 Thoth, the patron deity of learning, revealed 
 it to mankind. The Jews also affirm (Tract. 
 Aboth, c. V.) that the Kethab, ' Writing,' was 
 one of the ' ten things ' which were created on 
 the eve of Sabbath during twilight. In fact, 
 all nations of antiquity claim for writing a 
 divine authorship." 
 
 I then showed, by drawing on a slate, how 
 the picture-writing of the ancient Egyptians 
 was metamorphosed, and by degrees became 
 
 > " The Alphabet," Vol. i, p. 5. 
 
our modem arbitrary letters ; how the picture 
 of an "ox" developed into our letter A ; how 
 the Egyptisui ideogram am, " an owl," be- 
 came our phonetic letter M, and other 
 Jr/ I significant points. 
 
 With the advance of civilization, the mode 
 of writing with ideographs became, for simple 
 utilitarian reasons, obsolete ; the most obvious 
 of which was, that picture-writing took up 
 too much space and time, and required no 
 small degree of artistic skill. 
 
 " It would be a good plan," suggested 
 
 Miss D , " if one could invent a picture 
 
 alphabet for decorative purposes." 
 
 " It would be, indeed," I assented. " But 
 in that we could not take the Egyptian 
 method for a model, since we possess only 
 twenty-six letters, while the number of 
 Egyptian hieroglyphics amounts to thou- 
 sands. Every object, animate or inanimate, 
 found on Egyptian soil, was used by the peo- 
 ple as an ideograph, — some of which, in the 
 course of time, developed into phonetic signs." 
 
 It was on that occasion that a floral 
 alphabet suggested itself to my mind as an 
 appropriate means for decorative purposes. 
 I gave no further thought to the matter until 
 1899, when, on another visit to Baltimore, 
 iii 
 
happening to call on Mr. Dohme, I was re- 
 minded of the subject we had discussed at our 
 last meeting. 
 
 " Only a floral alphabet," I again sug- 
 gested, "would meet the requirements of 
 decorative art." 
 
 On returning to New York, I resolved to 
 tax my ingenuity to invent one. I set to 
 work, and after much speculation, waste of 
 time, paper and ink, I was ready to give it up 
 as a hopelessly Utopian scheme. A further 
 attempt, however, resulted in my returning 
 to the original proposition — viz., Flowers. 
 " Why not the rose ? " I said ; " the rose 
 might be a most appropriate subject for my 
 Alphabet." It struck me that, instead of 
 employing twenty-six different flowers — viz., 
 a flower for each letter — (an impracticable 
 process for the embroiderer or decorator), the 
 rose, say the wild rose, would suit my pur- 
 pose ; and the rose I selected accordingly. It 
 took me some six months more to systema- 
 tize my projected Alphabet ; but I succeeded 
 at last, and, by means of leaves, buds, 
 flowers, and berries of the wild rose, I formed 
 twenty-six different combinations, as follows : 
 
 i^ii: 
 
 ^^^^^-^f^ 
 
D — Three leaves and 
 one flower. 
 
 G — Three leaves and 
 one bud. 
 
 
 B — Five leaves. 
 
 E — Five leaves and 
 one flower. 
 
 H — Five leaves and 
 one bud. 
 
 F — Seven leaves and 
 one flower. 
 
 I — Seven leaves and 
 one bud. 
 
 J — Three leaves and 
 two flowers. 
 
 M — Three leaves and 
 two buds. 
 
 K-^Five leaves and 
 two flowers. 
 
 N — Five leaves and 
 two buds. 
 
 L — Seven leaves and 
 two flowers. 
 
 O — Seven leaves and 
 two buds. 
 
P — Three leaves, one 
 bud and one flower. 
 
 Q — Five leaves, one 
 bud and one flower. 
 
 R — Seven leaves, one 
 bud and one flower. 
 
 S — Three leaves, two 
 
 flowers and one 
 
 bud. 
 
 V — Three leaves, two 
 
 buds and one 
 
 flower. 
 
 T — Five leaves, two 
 
 flowers and one 
 
 bud. 
 
 W — Five leaves, two 
 
 buds and one 
 
 flower. 
 
 U — Seven leaves, two 
 
 flowers and one 
 
 bud. 
 
 X — Seven leaves, two 
 
 buds and one 
 
 flower. 
 
 Y — Three leaves 
 and berries. 
 
 Z — Five leaves and 
 berries. 
 
si^ 
 
 mmm. 
 
 My observation of rose-bushes taught me 
 that the number of leaves on the twigs of one 
 species differs from those of another. More- 
 over, the leaves are always in odd numbers ; 
 some bear only three leaves on each twig, 
 others five, seven, and some even nine. 
 
 That apparent incongruity caused me to 
 modify my previous plans for the present one 
 — which is, so far as I can see, logical in its 
 conception ; for, by this method, not only the 
 rose, but any other flower, may be taken by 
 the decorator — provided it bears leaves, buds, 
 flowers, and berries. 
 
 The Phyllanthographic Alphabet can easily 
 be acquired. It need not take more than 
 twenty minutes for the average mind to 
 master it. The twenty- six letters are ar- 
 ranged in three columns — viz. : Those in the 
 left column, from top to bottom, are of three 
 leaves each ; the middle column of five, and 
 the right column of seven leaves. 
 
 The name phyllanthography is composed 
 of three Greek words — viz., ii>iiU.ov (^phullon), 
 " leaf ; " avOo^ (anihos), " flower," and ypd<fito 
 {grapko), " I write." 
 
 In addition to Phyllanthography, I beg to 
 present to the subscribers of my work a col- 
 lection of poetry on Roses, which I name 
 
 vu 
 
 V 
 
 M 
 
j^ ^n^mmm^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 " Basket of Choice Roses." These I have 
 culled from the best American, English, and 
 foreign poetical works. 
 
 The rose has always been, as it is now, a 
 favored theme with the bards of all nations. 
 King Solomon's beloved bride compares 
 herself to the " Rose of Sharon." The 
 rose was the emblem of youth, dedicated 
 by the ancient Greeks to Aurora the goddess 
 of youth. The Romans devoted it to Venus, 
 the goddess of love. The Persian poets 
 speak of Bulbul the " Nightingale " as the 
 wooer of the Rose. There is no poet of im- 
 portance, ancient or modern, who did not 
 contribute some stanzas to its praise. 
 Decorative art has taken full advantage of 
 that charming flower; even medicine dis- 
 covered its usefulness as an adjuvant to 
 various remedies ; and, as for its delicate per- 
 fume, it surpasses all other sweet-smelling 
 flowers of the garden. 
 
 Many stories have been written about the 
 rose ; and volumes might be filled with the 
 folk-lore and tradition, religious and secular, 
 concerning the " Queen of Blooms." 
 
 Directions to the Artist 
 
 In drawing the floral letters of a name or 
 viii 
 

 sentence, care should be taken to join them 
 to the stem on either side, one above the 
 other (see plates), or to place them in juxta- 
 position when it is in the form of a bouquet, 
 as the name of Mary (See Plate). 
 
 10? 
 
 tit 
 
 j,^^,"^:4->e-o 0-^ 
 
 'Vj^- 
 
 
 <-■ l--^, 
 
 ^ '^/f' 
 
 ,', A-N-^ ; -,••■ 
 
 
"Basket of Choice Roses 
 
 culled from 
 
 Ancient and Modern Poets 
 
 by 
 
 Samuel A. Binion 
 
" Basket of Choice Roses 
 
 )) 
 
 :/ 
 
 § \ 
 
 y 
 
 i 
 
 /^ 
 
 I am the rose of Sharon, and the lily of the 
 valleys. As the lily among thorns so is my 
 love among the daughters. 
 
 — Song of Solomon 2:1. 
 
 THE ROSE 
 
 With the flowery crowned Spring 
 Now the vernal rose we sing ; 
 Sons of mirth, your sprightly lays 
 Mix with ours, to sound its praise : 
 Rose, the gods' and men's sweet flower ; 
 Rose, the Graces' paramour ; 
 This of Muses the delight, 
 This is Venus' favorite ; 
 Sweet when gfuarded by sharp thorns ; 
 Sweet, when its soft hands adorns ; 
 How at mirthful boards admir'd I 
 How at Bacchus' feasts desir'd I 
 3 
 
 y 
 
 '^'' 
 
'# 
 
 Emil. 
 
 Servant 
 Emil. 
 
 Of all flowers 
 
 Methinks the rose is best. 
 
 Why, gentle madam ? 
 
 It is the very emblem of a maid : 
 
 For when the west wind courts her 
 
 gently 
 How modestly she blows, and 
 
 paints the sun 
 With her chaste blushes I When 
 
 the north comes near her. 
 Rude and impatient, then, like 
 
 chastity. 
 She locks her beauties in her bud 
 
 again, 
 And leaves him to base briers. 
 
 1 589-161 6 — Beaumont £=f Fletcher 
 (1579-1623). 
 
 ROSES 
 
 A Bridal Song 
 Roses, their sharp spines being gone 
 Not royal in their smells alone, 
 
 But in their hue. 
 Maiden-pinks of their color faint. 
 Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint, 
 And sweet thyme true : 
 7 
 
 ^^^V 
 
 ^"^^^^^i^ 
 
^^f 
 
 t"^ J 
 
 
 Primrose, first-born child of Ver, 
 Merry spring-time's harbinger, 
 
 With her bells dim ; 
 Oxlips in their cradles growing, 
 Marigolds on death-beds blowing. 
 
 Lark-heels trim. 
 
 All, dear Nature's children sweet, 
 Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet, 
 
 Blessing their sense I 
 Not an angel of the air. 
 Bird melodious, or bird fair. 
 
 Be absent hence I 
 
 The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor 
 The boding raven, nor chough hoar. 
 
 Nor chattering pie, 
 May on our bride-house perch or sing, 
 Or with them any discord bring. 
 
 But from it fly. 
 
 — Beaumont i^ Fletcher. 
 
 "<-k 
 
■■I 'rW i f i 
 
 mi^iMffHOSRJi^ 
 
 /V '-^ 
 
 ■ ''^ [' 
 
 ,>■ i 
 
 A rosebud by my early walk, 
 A down acorn-enclosed bawk, 
 Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 
 All on a dewy morning. 
 
 Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
 Ina' its crimson glory spread. 
 And drooping rich the dewy head, 
 It scents the early morning. 
 
 Within the bush, her covert nest, 
 A little linnet fondly prest. 
 The dew sat chilly on her breast 
 Sae early in the morning. 
 
 She soon shall see her tender brood. 
 The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
 Amang the fresh green leaves bedew' d, 
 Awake the early morning. 
 
 So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair. 
 On trembling string or vocal air, 
 Shalt sweetly pay the tender care 
 That tents thy early morning. 
 
 So thou, sweet rosebud, young and gay, 
 Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day. 
 And bless the parents' evening ray 
 That watch'd thy early morning. 
 
 — Robert Burns (i 759-1 784). 
 9 
 
 !\i 
 
 ^, 
 
M»THOCil» 
 
 O BONIE WAS YON ROSY BRIER 
 
 O bonie was yon rosy brier, 
 
 That blooms sae fair frae haunt o' man ; 
 And bonie she, and ah, how dear 1 
 
 It shaded frae the e'enin' sun. 
 
 Yon rosebuds in the morning dew. 
 
 How pure amang the leaves sae green ; 
 
 But purer was the lover's vow 
 
 They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 
 
 All in its rude and prickly bower. 
 
 That crimson rose, how sweet and fair I 
 
 But love is far a sweeter flower 
 Amid life's thorny path o' care. 
 
 The pathless wild, and wimpling bum, 
 Wi Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 
 
 And I, the world, nor wish, nor scorn 
 Its joys and griefs alike resign. 
 
 — Robert Burns. 
 
 THE RED RED ROSE 
 
 O, my luv's like a red, red rose, 
 That's newly sprung in June : 
 
 O, my luv's like the melodie 
 That's sweetly play'd in tune. 
 
 sS;v 
 
mnm 
 
 As fair art thou, my bonie lass, 
 
 So deep in luve am I, 
 And I will luve thee still, my dear, 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry. 
 
 Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
 And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 
 
 I will luve thee still, my dear. 
 While the sands o' life shall run. 
 
 fare thee weel, my only luve. 
 And fare thee weel a while. 
 
 will come again, my luve, 
 Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 
 
 — Robert Burns, 
 
j^ ^aimmm^ 
 
 Fresca rosa novella, 
 
 Piacente primavera, 
 
 Per prato e per riviera, 
 
 Gaiamente cantando, 
 
 Vostro fin pregio mando — a 
 la verdura, 
 Lo vostro pregio fino 
 
 In gio' si rinnoveli 
 
 Da grandi e da zitelli 
 
 Per ciascuno cammino, 
 
 E cantinne gli angelli 
 
 Ciascuno in sue latino 
 
 Da sera e da mattino 
 
 Su li verdi arbuscelli. 
 
 — Mesjer Guido Cavahanti. 
 (Florentine poet of the 13th Century). 
 
 H-~^ 
 
-A/ictoria, 
 
, ^^^^r^ mmmm ^ 
 
 / 
 
 &;:'V' 
 
 THE ROSE 
 
 As late each flower that sweetest blows 
 I plucked, the Garden's pride I 
 
 Within the petals of a Rose 
 A sleeping Love I spied. 
 
 Around his brows a beamy wreath 
 
 Of many a lucent hue ; 
 All purple glowed his cheek, beneath, 
 
 Inebriate with dew. 
 
 I softly seized the unguard Power, 
 
 Nor scared his balmy rest ; 
 And placed him, caged within the flower 
 
 On spotless Sara's breast. 
 
 But when unweeting of the guile, 
 
 Awoke the prisoner sweet. 
 He struggled to escape a while 
 
 And stamped his faery feet. 
 
 Ah, soon the soul-entrancing sight 
 
 Subdued the impatient boy. 
 He gazed, he thrilled with deep delight ! 
 
 Then clapped his wings for joy. 
 15 
 
 ,,^:^y'S'^^y' 
 
mUMTKOGfil^ 
 
 l£ 
 
 " And O I " he cried—" Of magic kind 
 What charms this throne endear ! 
 
 Some other Love let Venus find — 
 I'll fix my empire here." 
 
 — Samuel Taylor Coleridge (l 772-1834). 
 
 
Yes, every flower that blows 
 
 I pass'd unheeded by, 
 Till this enchanting rose 
 
 Had fix'd my wand'ring eye. 
 It scented every breeze 
 
 That wanton'd o'er the stream 
 Or trembled through the trees 
 
 To meet the morning beam. 
 
 —Cunningkam. 
 
 

 i^^ 
 
 ROSE ROSARUM 
 
 Give me, O friend, the secret of thy heart 
 
 Safe in my breast to hide. 
 So that the leagues which keep our lives apart 
 
 May not our souls divide. 
 
 Give me the secret of thy life to lay 
 
 Asleep within my own. 
 Nor dream that it shall mock thee any day 
 
 By any sign or tone. 
 
 Nay, as in walking through some convent 
 close. 
 
 Passing beside a well, 
 Oft have we thrown a red and scented rose 
 
 To watch it as it fell. 
 
 Knowing that never the rose shall rise 
 
 To shame us, being dead ; 
 Watching it spin and dwindle till it lies 
 
 At rest a speck of red. 
 
 Thus, I beseech thee, down the silent deep 
 
 And darkness of my heart, 
 Cast thou a rose ; give me a rose 
 
 My friend, before we part. 
 
 "^ 
 
 *^ 
 
^mi»: 
 
 ON A WHITE ROSE 
 
 Rose, upon thy fragile stem, 
 
 White e'en like the fleecy snow, 
 Crystal fount nor sparkling gem 
 
 Can such grateful odor show, 
 And we praise thee, spotless, pure ; 
 
 Like a pet we give thee place : 
 Though thou mayst not long endure, 
 
 Yet may we a lesson trace. 
 
 Innocence and beauty blend 
 
 In thy soft and velvet dress ; 
 While thy blushes likewise tend 
 
 To increase thy loveliness. 
 Modest grace here, too, we see. 
 
 Crouched beneath thy emerald bed ; 
 Till the mild wind kisses thee, 
 
 Hidest thou thy white-crowned head. 
 
 So true merit often lies 
 
 Close concealed in modest dress, 
 And the world's gay pomp denies, 
 
 Choosing with kind deeds to bless. 
 Life sweet incense kind distilling 
 
 Healthful balm on all around. 
 Every heart most gladly filling 
 
 With such peace as may abound. 
 20 
 
 *^ 
 
. ^iT ^MmM^ 
 
 ^ii-f>y 
 
 When the winds arise, exciting 
 
 Vines that tremble on the caves, 
 Quiciily to the call replying, 
 
 She her sweet concealment leaves. 
 Then her worth is soon discovered, 
 
 And her fame to all is known : 
 Praises then, as wreaths all fadeless. 
 
 On her head rest like a crown. 
 
 Roses droop and fade and wither. 
 
 And their tender petals fall : 
 Grief the sunniest sky o'ershadows 
 
 When loved friends obey the call ; 
 Bidding them to put off their blooming 
 
 When their vigor fades so fast. 
 And the tomb so sad and lonely. 
 
 Holds the treasure firm at last. 
 
 But dear friends, unlike the flowers 
 
 With celestial beauty blest. 
 Shall, when sounds the heavenly signal, 
 
 Break their cold and silent rest. 
 They shall come, made like the angels, 
 
 From all lands, afar and near, 
 To the home of many mansions 
 
 Which we hold in hope so dear. 
 
 — Daniel Augustus Drown. 
 
m 
 
 TO A JUNE ROSE 
 
 O royal Rose ! the Roman dress' d 
 His feast with thee ; thy petals press' d 
 Augustian brows ; thine odor fine 
 Mix'd with the three-times-mingled wine, 
 Lent the long Thracian draught its zest. 
 
 What marvel, then, if host and guest. 
 By love, by song, by thee caress' d. 
 Half-trembled on the half-divine, 
 O royal Rose I 
 
 And yet — and yet — I love thee best 
 In our old gardens of the West, 
 
 Whether about my thatch thou twine. 
 Or hers, that brown-eyed maid of mine. 
 Who lulls thee on her lawny breast, 
 O royal Rose ! 
 — Austin Dobson (In " Harper's Magazine "). 
 
 n 
 

 4 / •^— ^ 
 
 A ROSE OF DREAM 
 
 I dreamed a rose ; it bloomed 
 
 Beyond compare ; 
 Of all wild blossoms by the wayside 
 
 Most rich, most sweet, most rare. 
 
 So lovely was the rose 
 
 I could but love it, 
 As, drinking deep its fragrant soul, 
 
 I bent above it. 
 
 O tenderly its leaves 
 
 Outbreathed their beauty ; 
 
 Humbly to worship at that shrine 
 Was my dear duty. 
 
 Once, when in the twilight hour, 
 
 Its spirit drew me — 
 O wonderful ! I was aware 
 
 That wild rose knew me. 
 
 Knew me, my inmost heart — 
 
 And, O above 
 All joy imagined 1 lo ! my rose 
 
 Gave love for love. 
 
 — Richard Watson Gilder (1844-). 
 
 V-v 
 
.^^ ^mnm^ ^^ 
 
 heidenrOslein 
 
 Sah ein Knab' ein Roslein stehn, 
 Roslein auf der Heiden, 
 War so jung- und morgenschon, 
 Lief er schnell es nah zu sehn, 
 Sah's mit vielen Freuden. 
 Roslein, Roslein, Roslein roth, 
 Roslein auf der Heiden. 
 
 Knabe sprach : Ich breche dich, 
 Roslein auf der Heiden ! 
 Roslein sprach, Ich steche dich, 
 Das du ewig denkst an mich, 
 Und ich will's nicht leiden. 
 Roslein, Roslein, Roslein roth, 
 Roslein auf der Heiden. 
 
 Und der wilde Knabe brach 
 'S Roslein auf der Heiden : 
 Roslein wehrte sich und stach. 
 Half ihr doch kein' Weh und Ach, 
 Must es eben leiden. 
 Roslein, Roslein, Roslein roth, 
 Roslein auf der Heiden. 
 
 — Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832). 
 
mUMfHOGBlPg r 
 
 w 
 
 <^ 
 
 THE WILD ROSE 
 
 A boy espied, in morning light, 
 
 A little rosebud blowing ; 
 'Twas delicate and bright, 
 That he came to feast and sight, 
 
 And wonder at its growing. 
 Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red. 
 
 Rosebud brightly blowing 1 
 I will gather thee he cried — 
 
 Rosebud brightly blowing I 
 Then I'll sting thee, it replied, 
 And you'll quickly start aside 
 
 With the prickle glowing. 
 Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red 
 
 Rosebud brightly blowing I 
 But he plucked it from the plain. 
 
 The rosebud brightly blowing ! 
 It tum'd and stung him, but in vain — 
 He regarded not the pain. 
 
 Homewards with it going. 
 Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, 
 
 Rosebud brightly blowing. 
 
 — Goethe (Translated by Theodore Martm) 
 
 26 
 
 yi/xy 
 
ifL-f 
 
 I went for a rose to the garden at mom, 
 When t'wards me the note of the bulbul ' was 
 borne. 
 
 Enamored as I of the charms of a flower, 
 Unhappy, it poured forth its plaint in the 
 bower. 
 
 Full oft to the green of that garden I went, 
 My thoughts on that rose and that nightin- 
 gale bent. 
 
 The rose hath its thorn, and the bulbul its 
 
 pain, 
 This aye to continue, and that to remain. 
 
 So thrilled to my heart, that sad nightingale's 
 
 air. 
 That mastered by feeling, no more could I 
 
 bear. 
 
 Though many a rose in this garden is bom, 
 No mortal who culls one escapes from the 
 thom. 
 
 — Hafiz of Shiraz (14th Century). 
 ' Nightingale. 
 
 A^l 
 

 %. 
 
 i^-& 
 
 I sent my love two roses, — one 
 As white as driven snow, 
 
 And one a blushing royal red, 
 A flaming Jacqueminot. 
 
 —John Hay (i 828-1905). 
 
 18 
 
 M:r^ 0%> a 
 
 \. 
 
 '^■. 
 
 ?^7^ > 
 
 7^^ 
 
 
a green slope, most fragrant with the 
 spring, 
 One sweet, fair day I planted a red rose. 
 That grew beneath my tender nourishing. 
 So tall, so riotous of bloom, that those 
 Who passed the little valley where it grew, 
 
 Smiled at its beauty. All the air was sweet 
 About it. Still I tended it, and knew 
 
 That he would come, e'en as it grew com- 
 plete. 
 
 And a day brought him. Up I led him, where 
 In the warm sun my rose bloomed glo- 
 riously — 
 Smiling and saying, " So, is it not fair ? 
 And all for thee — all thine." But he passed 
 by 
 Coldly, and answered, " Rose ? I see no rose," 
 
 Leaving me standing in the barren vale 
 Alone, alone, feeling the darkness close 
 
 Deep o'er my heart, and all my being fail. 
 Then came one gently, yet with eager tread. 
 Begging one rosebud — but my rose was dead. 
 — Hildegarde Hawthorne. 
 
 ?L- 
 
 '^l 
 
^SfflU^ 
 
 Die Rose, die Lilye, die Taube, die Sonne, 
 Die liebt'ich einst alle all in Liebeswonne. 
 Ich lieb' sie nicht mehr, ich liebe alleine 
 Die Kleine, die Peine, die Reine, die Eine ; 
 Sie selber aller Liebe Bronne. 
 1st Rose und Lilye und Taube und Sonne. 
 — Heinrich Heine (1799-1856). 
 
 i.J^: 
 
n 
 
msmmm^ 
 
 THE WILD ROSE 
 
 Welcome, oh ! welcome once again, 
 
 Thou dearest of all the laughing flowers. 
 That open their odorous bosoms when 
 
 The summer birds are in their bowers. 
 There is none that I love, sweet gem, 
 like thee. 
 So mildly through the green leaves 
 stealing ; 
 For I seem, as thy delicate flush I see, 
 In the dewy haunts of my youth to be ; 
 And a gladsome youthful feeling 
 Springs to my heart, that not all the glare 
 Of the blossoming East could awaken there. 
 
 —Mary //>»/« (i 804-1 888). 
 
 ^ ''^'} 
 
 V 
 
 '^ 
 
^MH^^ 
 
 FLOWERS 
 
 I will not have the mad Clytie, 
 
 Whose head is turned by the sun ; 
 The tulip is a courtly quean, 
 
 Whom therefore I will shun : 
 The cowslip is a country wench, 
 
 The violet is a nun ; — 
 But I will woo the dainty rose, 
 
 The queen of every one. 
 
 The pea is but a wanton witch, 
 
 In too much haste to wed, 
 And clasps her rings on every hand ; 
 
 The wolfsbane I should dread ; 
 Nor will I dreary rosemarye. 
 
 That always mourns the* dead ; 
 But I will woo the dainty rose. 
 
 With her cheeks of tender red. 
 
 The lily is all in white like a saint, 
 
 And so is no mate for me, 
 And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, 
 
 She is of such low degree ; 
 Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, 
 
 And the broom's betrothed to the bee ; 
 But I will plight with the dainty rose, 
 
 For fairest of all is she. 
 
 — Thomas Hood ( 1 799-1 845). 
 32 
 
pIJIWHOG»^; 
 
 La tombe dit a la Rose ; 
 
 Des pleurs dont 1' aube t'arrose 
 
 Que fais-tu, fleur des amours ? 
 
 La Rose dit a la tombe ; 
 
 Que fais-tu de ce qui tombe 
 
 Dans ton gouffre couvert toujours ? 
 
 La Rose dit : — Tombeau sombre, 
 De ces pleurs je fais dans 1' ombre, 
 Un parfum d' ambre et de miel. 
 La tombe dit : — Fleur plaintive, 
 De chaque kme qui m' arrive 
 Je fais un ange du Ciel. 
 
 —Hctor Hugo ( 1 802-1885), 
 
feS 
 
 UM 
 
 0". 
 
 muMfm^ms ^^ 
 
 THE WHITE ROSE OF AMERICA 
 
 Fair daughter of the morn, whose snow top 
 Bends, gently waving, to the passing breath. 
 Of frolic Zephyrs, when along the grove 
 They chant their airy songs to welcome 
 
 spring, 
 In seeming adoration ; well, I wean 
 Belov'd art thou by them, pleas'd when they 
 
 see 
 Thy humble form breathe incense on their 
 
 way. 
 To add new fragrance to the perfum'd air. 
 And well I love thee too, when thy fair head 
 Peeps through my cottage window, as to 
 
 greet 
 Mine only rise with cheering smiles, before 
 Thy ruby sisters ; who, at my approach, 
 To hail the morn, seem deeper yet each hour 
 The blush that never with their snowy queen 
 They render' d duteous homage to their lord. 
 
 Not the bright sunfiow'r's top of burnish'd 
 gold, 
 The yellow jonquil, vary-color'd pink, 
 The purple passion-flow'r, beloved of Chris- 
 tians, 
 
 34 
 
 rA'^-^- 
 
 
 ■7 ^I'A^J-lf-X^ 
 
■ mj^mmm^ 
 
 m 
 
 / 
 
 // 
 
 ,m 
 
 Wet with the dewy tear of dying Sol. 
 The lily dress' d with innocence and gra.ce, 
 The wild-born daisy, and the violet blue, 
 Or the fair primrose that at spring's advance, 
 Seems to grow pale, when from her " green 
 
 lap thrown " 
 So many glitt'ring rivals rise around ; 
 Not the sweet twining woodbine, heart-ease 
 
 rich. 
 Purpled with gold-dropt velvet, or the fair, 
 But humble snow-drop beaming through the 
 
 mist, 
 Like the big tear for lov'd Adonis slain. 
 Through the fring'd eyelids of the queen of 
 
 love. 
 Catch my admiring eye like the pure flow'r, 
 Emblem of infant innocence, sweet rose. 
 
 Yet wilt thou die : pluck'd off by Time's 
 
 rude hand 
 From thy green bed, the lily leaf must fall. 
 Yet shall no gorgeous, pageant burial hide 
 With its dark shade thy drooping white that 
 
 shews s 
 
 No faults that need concealment ; nor shall 
 
 pomp 
 Unmeaning usher thee to earth : one sigh 
 Alone, fair simple flow'r, shall breathe for thee, 
 35 
 
 ^i^ 
 
 ■V; 
 
 <v. 
 
 v.y\ 
 
 
«:bkthog» : 
 
 And stooping o'er thy wither'd form, I'll press 
 My bosom with my hand, and mournful say, 
 " Spotless be thou, my heart: like this sweet 
 
 rose 
 May death o'ertake thee, innocent and pure ; 
 And weeping for his loss, one only friend. 
 Forever faithful, drop the silent tear 
 O'er the sad stone that hides mortality, 
 And tells this sacred truth : ' The son of 
 
 man. 
 Like the low short-liv'd flow' ret of the field, 
 Rises to light and life, then fades and dies I ' 
 Great Arbiter of Fate, Thy will be done." 
 
 —James Henry Leigh Hunt (1784-1859). 
 
 Thee, Thee, Almighty King of kings, 
 
 Man worships not alone ; 
 Each budding flow'r its incense brings. 
 
 And waits it to Thy throne. 
 
 — Leigh Hunt, 
 
 •^y 
 
 %, 
 
 ^. 
 
 "^S^K^I^ 
 

 J' 
 
 THE ROSE BY THE WAYSIDE 
 
 A little rose bloomed in the way 
 O'er which 1 roamed one sunny day : 
 
 It looked so fair, 
 I wondered why alone it grew, 
 And why so long concealed from view, 
 
 While nestling there. 
 
 Its crimson petals wide outspread 
 A grateful perfume freely shed ; 
 
 Dripping with dew. 
 It seemed in whispered tones to say, 
 ^ " Shunning the glances of the gay, 
 
 I bloomed for you. 
 
 " The sunshine kissed my petals gay, 
 Soon as I peeped to hail the day. 
 
 With blushes red ; 
 I was content, though hid from view ; 
 No other footsteps this way drew 
 
 By beauty led." 
 
 I claimed the treasure, pure and fair. 
 As all mine own ; with special care 
 
 I kept it long : 
 It said sweet sayings o'er and o'er ; 
 But one bright mom it spoke no more,— 
 
 Its leaves were gone. 
 37 
 
^UMffHOCSJg ^ 
 
 As late I rambled in the happy fields, 
 
 What time the skylark shakes the tremu- 
 lous dew 
 From his lush clover covert ; — when 
 Adventurous knights take up their dinted 
 
 shields ; 
 I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, 
 A fresh-blown musk-rose ; 't was the first 
 
 that threw 
 Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it 
 grew 
 As is the wand that Queen Titania wields. 
 
 And, as I feasted on its fragrancy, 
 
 I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd; 
 But when, O Wells ! thy roses came to me, 
 My sense with their deliciousness was 
 spell'd : 
 Soft voices had they, that with tender plea 
 Whisper' d of peace, and truth, and friend- 
 liness unquell'd. 
 
 — John Keats (1795-1821). 
 
 /I'i; 
 
 m^ 
 
mBKfHosK» : 
 
 ||j#\ DIE MOOSROSE 
 
 Der Engel der die Blumen verpflegt und 
 in stiller Nacht den Thau darauf traufelt, 
 schlummerte an einem Friihlingstage im 
 Schatten eines Rosenstrauchs. 
 
 Und als er erwachte, da sprach er mit 
 freundlichem Antlitz : Lieblichstes meiner 
 Kinder, ich danke dir fiir deinen erquick- 
 enden Wohlgeruch und fiir deine kiihlenden 
 Schatten. Konntest du dir noch etwas er- 
 bitten, wie gem wiird' ich es dir gewahren. 
 
 So schmiicke mich mit einem neuen Reize 
 — flehete darauf der Geist des Rosenstrauchs. 
 — Und der Blumenengel schmiickte die 
 Konigin der Blumen mit einfachem Moose. 
 
 Lieblich stand sie da in bescheidenem 
 Schmuck, die Moosrose, die schonste ihres 
 Geschlechts. 
 
 Holde Lina, lass den Flitterputz und das 
 fliimmernde Gestein, und folge dem Winke 
 der miitterlichen Natur. 
 
 — Frederic Adolphus Krummacher (i 767-1 845). 
 
 40 
 
^iimmw^ y. 
 
 W^ 
 
 i-^w'^M 
 
 ^ 
 
 V 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE 
 
 The angel who tends the flowers and 
 sprinkles the dew on them in the stillness of 
 the night, slumbered one morning in spring 
 under the shade of a rose-bush. 
 
 When he awoke he said with friendly 
 countenance : " Loveliest of my children, I 
 thank thee for thy refreshing fragrance and 
 thy cooling shade. Couldst thou ask a favor, 
 how willingly would I grant it 1 " 
 
 " Adorn me with a new grace," implored 
 the spirit of the rose-bush. And the angel 
 adorned the queen of flowers with a veil of 
 Moss. 
 
 Lovely she appeared in her simple array, 
 the moss-rose, the most beautiful of her kind. 
 
 Sweet Lina, bid adieu to finery and 
 glittering jewels, and follow the maternal 
 beckoning of Nature. 
 
 41 
 
 %. 
 
yaKTHOCili» 
 
 THE ROSEBUD 
 
 A boy was standing by a rose-bush covered 
 with buds and blooming roses ; blithely and 
 busily he looked now at a rose, now at a 
 petal, now at a bud. His father watched him 
 from a distance, as he stood in a shady 
 bower ; and his eye rested with fervent love 
 and devotion on the darling of his heart, 
 
 " Is it not," said he to himself, " as though 
 a prophetic voice were speaking to me from 
 the rose-bush, predicting by its buds and 
 flowers that paternal joys will bloom for me 
 in the child ? Or what makes him so fair 
 and so dear to me, as he stands beside the 
 blooming rose-bush ? " 
 
 Thus said the father, while the son con- 
 tinued to gaze and to examine ; for admira- 
 tion of the beautiful rouses the desire of know- 
 ledge. 
 
 He wished to discover how the bud is de- 
 veloped into a rose. He folded his arms on 
 his chest, and looked steadfastly at a bud. 
 The father smiled. 
 
 Thus higher beings may smile when they 
 perceive a philosopher of this world fixing his 
 4a 
 
 ^^v 
 
"■3?>;-^^-'s;: 
 
 ^MiA. 
 
 u- 
 
 eye, aided by a microscope, on a star, or the 
 interior construction of a glowworm. 
 
 The boy soon found out that his watching 
 was in vain. Now he picked a bud, opened 
 it, and examined the inside with profound 
 attention. Then his father approached. 
 
 " What are you thinking about so seriously, 
 my child ? " asked he. 
 
 " O father," said the little boy, " I should 
 like to know how the bud becomes a rose, 
 therefore I picked and opened it ; but I see 
 nothing but little leaves, shrivelled and full 
 of wrinkles : I wish I had not broken it." 
 
 " Never mind, my child," replied the 
 father. " Nature has given abundance. She 
 did not only provide for our wants, but also 
 for our pleasure and our curiosity. Thou 
 hast learned, at least, that it is not easy to 
 penetrate into her mysteries." 
 
 "But I am not wiser now," said the 
 boy. 
 
 " Perhaps not," answered the father, 
 " but you had the sincere wish to learn. A 
 good intention is good in itself. The success 
 does not always depend upon man ; and even 
 if he succeeds, the good intention is always 
 the best in whatever he does." 
 
 After a little while the boy said, modesdy : 
 43 
 
 n (aV, 
 
" Will you tell me, my dear father, how the 
 bud becomes a flower ? " 
 
 Then the father answered : " My dear 
 child, I can merely tell you in three words 
 what happens : the bud increases in size, 
 beauty, and grace, till it reaches its perfec- 
 tion. Beyond that I know no more than you. 
 Nature gives us the beautiful in perfection 
 but she hides the hand which produces and 
 offers it." 
 
 Then the boy took the bud which he had 
 picked again in his hand, and said to his 
 father : " If the bud makes itself so beauti- 
 ful, more beautiful than an3^hing that man 
 can make, how is it that it cannot defend it- 
 self against the feeble hand of a child ? Why 
 is it able to do so much in the one case, and 
 so little in the other ? " 
 
 " Do you think that the bud forms and 
 makes itself, William?" asked the father, 
 looking with serene gravity at the boy. 
 
 " Oh, to be sure," answered the boy ; " the 
 flowers have like me a mother and a father 
 who bring them up and take care of them." 
 
 " One father of us all," replied the father 
 with emotion ; " we do not see Him, but we 
 feel His power and His love, in and around 
 

 Thus he spoke, and the boy's heart was 
 touched, for his father had dropped a jewel 
 into his soul. From henceforth, he regarded 
 the rose-bush and the flowers of the fields as 
 congenial beings, and he increased in age, 
 wisdom and grace. 
 
 The father kept the child's saying in his 
 heart, and related it to the affectionate mother 
 of the boy. " How clearly is the sublimest 
 of truths revealed to an innocent and simple 
 mind," said the mother. 
 
 — Frederic Adolphus Krummacher. 
 
«at[fHOSfiJ(% 
 
 ^ 
 
 ROSE OF SHARON AND LILY OF THE 
 VALLEY 
 
 Cant. II: I 
 
 A wilderness of barren sand, 
 With scorching sun-glare, hot and red. 
 Where whitened bones of men long dead, 
 
 A level, broad, deserted land. 
 
 Storms swept across it, and the sky 
 Deepened its red to blackest gloom ; 
 It seemed a buried nation's tomb, 
 
 So desolate below, on high. 
 
 Years passed, years slowly passed again ; 
 A long pale line of eastern light 
 Broke at the murkiest hour of light, 
 
 To herald sounds of summer rain. 
 
 Then on that lone and sandy flat 
 
 A Lily grows, with milk-white bloom, 
 The wilderness no more a tomb — 
 
 The desert beautiful for that. 
 
 And soon another flower expands. 
 The Rose of Sharon for the dew, 
 A silver morning light so new ; 
 
 Transplanted them to other lands. 
 
 46 
 
 ^i^^^^^^lA^ 
 
3 
 
MMfHocifi^ : 
 
 -^ 
 
 How wonderful it is ! the queen of flowers, 
 The marble Rose of Rome 1 Its petals torn 
 By wind and rain of twice five hundred years ; 
 The Rose of Rome, but not of Paradise ; 
 Not the white Rose our Tuscan poet saw, 
 With saints for petals. When this Rose was 
 
 perfect 
 Its hundred thousand petals were not saints 
 But senators in their Thesalian caps, 
 And all the roaring populace of Rome ; 
 And even an Empress and the Vestal Virgins, 
 Who came to see the gladiators die, 
 Could not give sweetness to a rose like this. 
 — Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (i 807-1 882). 
 

 A Ballad 
 I 
 In his tower sat the poet 
 
 Gazing on the roaring sea, 
 " Take this rose," he sighed, " and throw it 
 
 Where there is none that loves me. 
 On the rock the billow bursteth 
 
 And sinks back into the seas, 
 But in vain my spirit thirsteth 
 
 So to burst and be at ease. 
 Take, O sea, the tender blossom 
 
 That hath lain against my breast ; 
 On thy black and angry bosom 
 
 It will find a surer rest. 
 Life is vain, and love is hollow. 
 
 Ugly death stands there behind, 
 Hate and scorn and hunger follow 
 
 Him that toileth for his kind." 
 Forth into the night he hurled it. 
 
 And with bitter smile did mark 
 How the surly tempest whirled it 
 
 Swift into the hungry dark. 
 Foam and spray drive back to leeward, 
 
 And the gale with dreary moan. 
 Drifts the helpless blossom seaward, 
 
 Through the breakers all alone. 
 49 
 
 ^Mf^^ 
 
maKTHOGR» : 
 
 jf"- 
 
 ■Sx: 
 
 w 
 
 ■2S>^ 
 
 11 
 
 Stands a maiden, on the morrow, 
 
 Musing by the wave-beat strand. 
 Half in hope and half in sorrow, 
 
 Tracing words upon the sand ; 
 " Shall I ever then behold him 
 
 Who hath been my life so long, — 
 Ever to this sick heart fold him, — 
 
 Be the spirit of his song ? 
 Touch not, sea, the blessed letters 
 
 I have traced upon thy shore. 
 Spare his name whose spirit fetters 
 
 Mine with love for evermore." 
 Swells the tide and overflows it. 
 
 But with omen pure and meet. 
 Brings a little rose, and throws it. 
 
 Humbly at the maiden's feet. 
 Full of bliss she takes the token. 
 
 And, upon her snowy breast. 
 Soothes the ruffled petals broken 
 
 With the ocean's fierce unrest ; 
 " Love is thine, O Heart, and surely 
 
 Peace shall also be thine own, 
 For the heart that trusteth purely 
 
 Never long can pine alone." 
 
 50 
 
 
 'J/ 
 
■■^h-'M 
 
 
 
 . 1 
 
 
 In his tower sits the poet, 
 
 Blisses new and strange to him 
 Fill his heart and overflow it 
 
 With a wonder sweet and dim. 
 Up the beach the ocean slideth 
 
 With a whisper of delight, 
 And the moon in silence glideth 
 
 Through the peaceful blue at night. 
 Rippling o'er the poet's shoulder 
 
 Flows a maiden's golden hair, 
 Maiden lips, with love grown bolder, 
 
 Kiss his moonlit forehead bare. 
 " Life is joy, and love is power. 
 
 Death all fetters doth unbind, 
 Strength and wisdom only flower 
 
 When we toil for all our kind. 
 Hope is truth, — the future giveth 
 
 More than present taketh away, 
 And the soul forever liveth 
 
 Nearer God from day to day." 
 Not a word the maiden uttered, 
 
 Fullest hearts are slow to speak. 
 But a withered rose-leaf fluttered 
 
 Down upon the poet's cheek. 
 
 — James Russel Lowell (1819-1891). 
 
 51 
 
 fa. 
 
 .11 
 
 O j>%s> / 
 
 /.f/w>" 
 
 c-^^?^ 
 
 ??'" ' 
 
 -." Li J; 
 
^mi»: 
 
 THE ROSE AND THE WIND 
 
 Dawn 
 
 The Rose 
 When, think you, comes the Wind, 
 The Wind that kisses me and is so kind ? 
 Lo, how the Lily sleeps, her sleep is light : 
 Would I were like the Lily, pale and white. 
 Will the Wind come ? 
 
 The Beach 
 Perchance for you too soon. 
 
 The Rose 
 If not, how could I live until the noon ? 
 What, think you, Beech-tree, makes the Wind 
 
 delay ? 
 Why comes he not at breaking of day ? 
 
 The Beach 
 Hush, child, and, like the Lily, go to sleep. 
 
 The Rose 
 You know I cannot. 
 
 The Beach 
 Nay, then, do not weep. 
 
 x\ 
 
 ^^^ 
 
 
'*^.f--' U 
 
 {After a pause) 
 
 Your lover cometh, be happy now, O Rose ! 
 
 He softly through my bending branches goes. 
 
 Soon he shall come, and you shall feel his 
 
 kiss. 
 
 The Rose 
 Already my flush' d heart grows faint with 
 
 bliss, 
 Love, I have long'd for you through all the 
 
 night. 
 
 The Wind 
 And I do kiss your petals warm and bright. 
 
 The Rose 
 Laugh round me, Love, and kiss me ; it is 
 
 well. 
 Nay, have no fear, the Lily will not tell. 
 
 Morning 
 
 The Rose 
 
 'Twas dawn when first you came ; and now 
 
 the sun 
 Shines brightly and the dews of dawn are 
 
 done. 
 'Tis well you take me so in your embrace ; 
 But lay me back again into my place, 
 For I am worn, perhaps with bliss extreme. 
 
 S3 
 
^r ^MTHOfJ M^ 
 
 The Wind 
 Nay, you must wake, Love, from this childish 
 
 dream. 
 
 The Rose 
 'Tis you, Love, who seem changed ; your 
 
 laugh is loud, 
 And 'neath your stormy kiss my head is 
 
 bow'd. 
 O Love, O Wind, a space will you not 
 
 spare? 
 
 The Wind 
 Not while your petals are so soft and fair. 
 
 The Rose 
 My buds are blind with leaves, they cannot 
 
 see, — 
 O Love, O Wind, will you not pity me ? 
 
 Evening 
 
 The Beach 
 O Wind, a word with you before you pass ; 
 What did you to the Rose that on the grass 
 Broken she lies and pale, who lov'd you so ? 
 
 The Wind 
 Roses must live and love, and winds must 
 blow. 
 
 Philip Bourke Marston (1850-1887). 
 
 54 
 
c 
 
 AD C^SAREM DE ROSIS HYBERNIS 
 
 Ut nova dona tibi, Caesar, Nilotica Tellus 
 
 Miserat hybernas ambitiosa rosas : 
 Navita derisit Pharios Memphiticus portos, 
 
 Urbis ut intravit limina prima tuce. 
 Tantus veris honor, et odorae gratia Florae. 
 
 Tantaque Paestani gloria ruris erat. 
 Sic quacumque vagus gressumque oculosque 
 ferebat, 
 
 Tonsilibus sertis omne rubebat iter. 
 At tu Romanae jussus jam cedere brumae, 
 
 Mitte tuas messes ; accipe, Nile, rosas. 
 
 — Martial, vi, 8o. 
 
 ■J 
 
 TO DOMITIAN ON HIS WINTER ROSES 
 
 Anxious to pay her court to thee, the land 
 of the Nile had sent to thee, Caesar, as new 
 gifts, some winter roses. The Memphian 
 sailor felt little respect for the gardens of 
 Egypt, after he had crossed the threshold of 
 your city ; such was the splendor of the 
 spring, and the beauty of balmy Flora ; and 
 such the glory of the Paestan rose-beds. So 
 brighdy, too. wherever he directed his steps 
 
'^^ 
 
 ¥ 
 
 or his looks, did every path shine forth with 
 garlands of flowers. But do thou, O Nile, 
 since thou art compelled to yield to Roman 
 winters send us thy harvests, and receive our 
 roses. 
 
 — From Bohn's " Epigrams of Martial." 
 
^i^ 
 
 mwm 
 
 H,. 
 
 tS^i^I) 
 
 TWO ROSES AND A BUD 
 
 Two roses on one slender spray, 
 
 In sweet communion grew, 
 Together, hailed the morning ray. 
 
 And drank the ev'ning dew. 
 While sweetly wreath'd in rosy green, 
 There sprang a little bud between. 
 
 Through clouds and sunshine, storms and 
 showers, 
 
 They open'd into bloom. 
 Mingling their foliage and their flowers. 
 
 Their beauty and perfume ; 
 While fostered on its rising stem 
 The bud became a purple gem. 
 
 But soon their summer splendor pass'd, 
 
 They faded in the wind. 
 Yet were these roses to the last 
 
 The loveliest of their kind. 
 Whose crimson leaves in falling round, 
 Adorned and sanctified the ground. 
 
 When thus were all their honors shorn, 
 
 The bud unfolding rose. 
 And blush'd and brighten'd, as the morn 
 
 From dawn to sunrise glows, 
 
 57 
 
 d\h '^"^ 
 
 X- '■■""" 
 
 
 x^-^'fe^ 
 
■m 
 
 .S^z^^ 
 
 Till o'er each parent's drooping head, 
 The daughter's crowning glory spread. 
 
 My friends I in youth's romantic prime, 
 
 The golden age of man. 
 Like these twin Roses spend your time, 
 
 Life's little, lessening span ; 
 Then be your breasts as free from cares. 
 Your hours as innocent as theirs. 
 
 And in the infant bud that blows 
 
 In your encircling arms, 
 Mark the dear promise of a rose. 
 
 The pledge of future charms. 
 That o'er your withering hours shall shine. 
 Fair, and more fair, as you decline ; — 
 
 Till planted in that realm of rest 
 
 Where roses never die, 
 Amidst the g^ardens of the blest. 
 
 Beneath a stormless sky. 
 You flower afresh, like Aaron's rod. 
 That blossom'd at the sight of God. 
 
 — James Montgomery (177 6- 185 4). 
 
 58 
 
 .^ 
 
 '^^^^K^m^ 
 
.0 
 
 
 If love would give the leafy bowers 
 A queen for all their world of flowers, 
 The rose would be the choicest of Jove, 
 And blush the queen of every grove 
 Sweetest child of weeping morning. 
 Gem the breast of earth adorning, 
 Eye of flow'rets, glow of lawns, 
 Bud of beauty, nursed by dawns. 
 Soft the soul of love inbreathes, 
 Cypria's brow with magic wreathes ; 
 And to the Zephyr's warm caresses, 
 Diffuses all its verdant tresses. 
 Till glowing with the wanton's play. 
 It blushes a diviner ray. 
 
 — Thomas Moore (1779-1852). 
 
 'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER 
 
 'Tis the last rose of summer. 
 
 Left blooming alone ; 
 All her lovely companions 
 
 Are faded and gone ; 
 No flower of her kindred, 
 
 No rosebud, is nigh 1 
 59 
 
 5 , Qs • 
 
 if \-' ; .' 
 1 .";.' ^/ '•''' 
 
 
 
 -A-"^- , ; 
 
 /f'^A 
 
f^ 
 
 w 
 
 I'll not leave thee, thou lone one I 
 
 To pine on the stem ; 
 Since the lovely are sleeping 
 
 Go sleep thou with them ; 
 Thus kindly I scatter 
 
 Thy leaves o'er the bed, 
 Where thy mates of the garden 
 
 Lie scentless and dead. 
 
 So soon may F follow. 
 
 When friendships decay, 
 And from love's shining circle 
 
 The gems drop away I 
 When true hearts lie withered, 
 
 And fond ones are flown, 
 O, who would inhabit 
 
 This bleak world alone ? 
 
 — Thomas Moore, 
 
 There's a bower of roses by Bandemeer's 
 stream. 
 And the nightingale sings round it all the 
 day long, 
 In the time of my childhood 'twas like a sweet 
 dream. 
 To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. 
 
 — Thomas Moore. 
 60 
 
jT ^JMrnrnw^ 
 
 RUB'AIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM 
 
 Iram indeed is gone with all his rose, 
 And Jamshid's Sev'n-ring'd where no one 
 knows, 
 But still a ruby kindles in the vine. 
 And many a garden by the water blows. 
 
 And David's lips are lockt ; but in divine 
 High-piping Pehlevi,' with " Wine. Wine. 
 Wine. 
 Red Wine," the nightingale cries to the rose 
 That sallow cheek of hers t' incarnadine. 
 
 Each morn a thousand roses brings you say ; 
 Yes, but where leaves the rose of yesterday ? 
 And this first summer month that brings 
 the rose 
 Shall take Jamshid and Kaikobad away. 
 
 With me along the strip of Herbage strown 
 That just divides the desert from the sown, 
 Where name of slave and Sultan is forgot, 
 And peace to Mahmud on his golden throne. 
 
 Classic language of ancient Persia. 
 6i 
 
 'f^ 
 
 V 
 
A book of verses underneath the bough 
 A jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou 
 
 Beside me singing in the wilderness — 
 Oh, wilderness were paradise enow 1 
 
 Look to the rose about us — " Lo, 
 Laughing," she says, " into the world I blow, 
 
 At once the silken tassel of my purse 
 Tear, and its treasures on the garden throw.' 
 
 I sometimes think that never blows so red 
 The rose as where some buried Caesar bled. 
 
 That every Hyacinth the garden wears 
 Dropt in her lap from some once lovely head. 
 
 m< 
 
 Yet ah, that spring should vanish with the 
 
 rose? 
 That youth's sweet-scented manuscript should 
 close 
 The nightingale that in the branches sang. 
 Ah whence and whither flown again, who 
 knows. 
 
 — Edward Fitzgerald (From the Persian). 
 
 M 
 
 6a 
 
 ^'i^\ 
 
4^ 
 
 Once a white rosebud reared her head, 
 And peevishly to Flora said, 
 " Look at my sister's blushing hue. 
 Pray, mother, let me have it too." 
 " Nay, child," was Flora's mild reply, 
 " Be thankful for such gift as I 
 Have deemed befitting to dispense — 
 The dower the hue of innocence." 
 
 —Gottlieb Konrad Pfeffel {iTi6-iiog). 
 
V^Jl 
 
 ^ 
 
 A HIDDEN ROSE TREE 
 
 Fore'er my head, among dark, polished 
 
 leaves 
 Of laurel and stiff holly, it outspread 
 Its clusters exquisite of bud and bloom. 
 
 — Marguerite A. Power (l 789-1 849). 
 
 w 
 
 ^G^:^^.^ 
 
i^l 
 
 Ehret die Frauen I sie flechten und weben 
 Himmlische Rosen ins irdische Leben. 
 
 Honor women ! they entwine and weave 
 Heavenly roses in our earthly life. 
 
 — yohann Christoph Friedrich von Shitler 
 (1759-1805). 
 
MHOGR»: 
 
 .'TK 
 
 / 
 
 " The rose is fairest when 'tis budding new, 
 And hope is brightest when it dawns from 
 fear; 
 The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning 
 dew, 
 And love is loveliest when embalm' d 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, 1771-1832). 
 
 67 
 
 ,^>--o r 
 
The rose looks fair but fairer we it deem 
 For that sweet odor which doth in it live. 
 The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye 
 As the perfumed tincture of the roses, 
 Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly, 
 When summer's breath their masked buds 
 
 discloses. 
 But, for their virtue only is their show. 
 
 — William Shakespeare (1561-1616). 
 
 They live unmoved, and unrespected fade ; 
 Die to themselves ; sweet roses do not so ; 
 Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors 
 made. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 BUDS FROM SHAKESPEARE 
 Fair ladies masked are roses in their bud. 
 
 — Love's Labor Lost, V, 2, 2g^. 
 
 As Dian in her orb, as chaste in her bud 
 ere it be blown. 
 
 — Much Ado, IV, I, sg. 
 
 Live so in hope as in an early spring we 
 see appearing buds. 
 
 —2 Henry IV, II, 1, 3, jg. 
 68 
 
"5 
 
 pttAWlfflM 
 
 '?^'Z~~^ 
 
 -0 
 
 Even such delight, among fresh female buds. 
 — Romeo and Juliet, i, j^. 
 
 This bud of love, by summer's ripening 
 
 breath, 
 May prove a beauteous flower when next 
 
 we meet. 
 
 — Romeo and Juliet, II, 2, I2I. 
 
 See, my woman ! Against the blown rose 
 
 may they stop their nose, 
 That kneel'd unto the buds — 
 
 — Ant. and Cleo. Ill, ij. 
 
 A rose by any other name would smell as 
 sweet. 
 
 —Romeo and Juliet, II, 2, 4.3. 
 
THE ROSE THOU GAV'ST 
 
 The rose thou gav'st at parting — 
 
 Hast thou forgot the hour ? 
 The moon was on the river, 
 
 The dew upon the flower, 
 Thy voice was full of tenderness. 
 
 But, ah, thy voice misleads ; 
 The rose is like thy promises, 
 
 Its thorn is like thy deeds. 
 
 The winter cometh bleakly. 
 
 And dark the time must be, 
 But I can deem it summer 
 
 To what thou' St prov'd to me 
 The snow that meets the sunlight 
 
 Soon hastens from the scene ; 
 But melting snow is lasting. 
 
 To what thy faith hath been. 
 
 — Charles Swain (1803-1874). 
 
 /■'' v^^i 
 
 
 ^S'-4>:^\ 
 
^< 
 
 A PLEDGE TO HAFIZ' 
 
 Brim the bowls with Shiraz wine I 
 Roses round your temples twine ; 
 Brim the bowls with Shiraz wine 
 Hafiz pledge we, Bard divine 1 
 With the summer warmth that glows 
 In the wine and on the rose, 
 Blushing, fervid, ruby-bright. 
 We shall pledge his name aright. 
 
 Hafiz, in whose measures move 
 Youth and beauty, Song and Love — 
 In his veins the nimble flood 
 Was of wine and not of blood. 
 All the songs he sang or thought 
 In his brain were never wrought, 
 But like rose leaves fell apart 
 From that bursting rose, his heart. 
 
 Youth is morning's transient ray ; 
 
 Love consumes itself away ; 
 
 Time destroys what beauty gives ; 
 
 But in song the poet lives. 
 
 While we pledge him — thus — and thus — 
 
 He is present here in us ; 
 
 ' Hafiz of Shiraz, the foremost Persian Lyric Poet of the 
 twelfth century. 
 
 78 
 
 '^ 
 
 
\ / 
 
 
 'Tis his voice that cries, not mine : 
 Brim the bowls with Shiraz wine I 
 
 — Bayard Tayhr. 
 
 GULISTAN ' 
 
 Where is Gulistan the Land of Roses? 
 Not on hills where Northern winters 
 Break their spears in icy splinters, 
 
 And in shrouded snow the world reposes ; 
 But amid the glow and splendor 
 Which the Orient summers lend her, 
 
 Blue the heaven above her beauty closes ; 
 
 There is Gulistan, the Land of Roses 
 
 Northward stand the Persian mountains ; 
 Southward spring the silver fountains 
 
 Which to Hafiz taught the sweetest measures. 
 Clearly ringing to the singing 
 Which the nightingales delight in. 
 When the spring, from Oman winging 
 
 Unto Shiraz, showers her fragrant treasures 
 On the land, till valleys brighten, 
 Mountains lighten with returning 
 Fires of scarlet poppy burning. 
 And the stream meanders 
 Through its roseate oleanders, 
 
 ' The Land of Roses. 
 73 
 
 '■v. 
 
 
miiJOTHOGfiipg r 
 
 And Love's golden gate, unfolden, 
 Opens on a universe of pleasures. 
 
 There the sunshine blazes over 
 Meadows gemmed with ruby clover ; 
 There the rose's heart uncloses, 
 
 Prodigal with hoarded stores of sweetness. 
 And the lily's cup so still is 
 Where the river's waters quiver, 
 That no wandering air can spill his 
 
 Honeyed balm, or blight his beauty's fleet- 
 ness. 
 Skies are fairest, days are rarest — 
 Thou, O Earth ! a glory wearest 
 From the ecstasy thou bearest, 
 
 Once to feel the Summer's full completeness. 
 
 Twilight glances, moonlit dances, 
 Song by starlight, there entrances 
 Youthful hearts with fervid fancies, 
 
 And the blushing rose of love uncloses : 
 Love that, lapped in summer joyance, 
 Far from every rude annoyance 
 
 Calmly on the answering love reposes ; 
 And in song, in music only 
 Speaks the longing, vague and lonely, 
 Which to pain is there the nearest ; 
 Yet of joys the sweetest, dearest. 
 As a cloud when skies are clearest 
 74 
 
 ^^ 
 
 °^. 
 
 ''\^S^^/^ 
 
mwm 
 
 On its folds intenser light discloses : 
 This is Gulistan, the Land of Roses. 
 
 —Bayard Taylor (1825-1878). 
 
 THE GARDEN OF ROSES 
 
 Of the beautiful garden of Roses 
 I will sing, with your gracious leave : 
 
 There the dames walked forth at morning, 
 And the heroes fought at eve. 
 
 " My Lord is King of the country, 
 
 But I am the Garden's Queen ; 
 His crown with the red gold sparkles 
 
 And mine with the rose's sheen. 
 
 " So hear me, ye youthful gallants. 
 
 My favorite guardsmen three ; 
 The garden is free to the maidens, 
 
 To the knights it must not be. 
 
 " They would trample my beautiful roses. 
 
 And bring me trouble enow," — 
 Said the Queen as she walked in the morn- 
 ing 
 With the garland on her brow. 
 75 
 
 ^ 
 
 iXh 
 
 M-'m 
 
Then went the three young gallants 
 
 And guarded the gate about ; 
 And peacefully blossomed the roses 
 
 And sent their odors out. 
 
 Now came three fair young maidens, 
 
 Virgins that knew not sin : 
 " Ye guardsmen, ye gallant three guardsmen. 
 
 Open, and let us in 1 " 
 
 And when they had gathered the roses, 
 
 They spake with looks forlorn : 
 " What makes our hands so bloody ? 
 
 Is it the prick of the thorn ? " 
 
 And still the three young gallants 
 
 Guarded the gate about, 
 And peacefully blossomed the roses, 
 
 And sent their odors out. 
 
 Now came upon prancing stallions 
 Three lawless knights, and cried : 
 
 " Ye guardsmen, ye surly three guardsmen. 
 Open the portal wide ! " 
 
 " The portal is shut and bolted : 
 
 Our naked swords will teach 
 That the price of the roses is costly : 
 
 Ye must pay a wound for each 1 " 
 76 
 
^(^^^■^ 
 
 Then fought the knights and the gallants, 
 But the knights had the victory, 
 
 And the roses were torn and trampled, 
 And died with the guardsmen three. 
 
 And when the evening darkened. 
 The queen came by with her train : 
 
 " Now that my roses are trampled 
 And my faithful guardsmen slain, 
 
 " I will lay them on leaves of roses. 
 
 And bury them solemnly : 
 And where was the Garden of Roses, 
 
 The garden of Lilies shall be. 
 
 " But who will watch my Lilies, 
 When their blossoms open white ? 
 
 By day the sun shall be sentry 
 And the moon and the stars by night." 
 — Bayard Taylor (From Uhland). 
 
 77 
 
 '-^, 
 
 ^>^ 
 
— •:• QhxiA' f 1 1 e^ •:■ — 
 
^ ^KUMffHOGJlA^ 
 
 ROSE LEAVES 
 A Priceless Gem 
 
 I 
 
 Down in the dimness of a broken Vase 
 I found a dead Rose, ghost of long ago, 
 
 Faint-smelling as the joys of other days, 
 Sad as sweet hope remember' d wan as 
 woe. 
 
 II 
 
 Steep'd in the odorous essence of the flower 
 The wan breathed holy as a silent tomb. 
 
 Where o'er fall'n truth lamenting Memories 
 shower 
 Perennial tears, to make her ashes bloom. 
 
 ^ 
 
 III 
 
 Fast as its breathings rose like blissful clouds. 
 
 Fair phantoms upward on the vapor curl'd, 
 
 Sweet resurrections breaking from their 
 
 shrouds 
 
 Stood pale before me, like an ancient 
 
 world. 
 
 80 
 
 m^. 
 
 "N, 
 

 To me the vail of time was rent in twain, 
 Eve changed to Morn, the Moon into the 
 Sun. 
 
 Behind the cloud of days I saw again 
 A feast, a bridal, and the first of June I 
 
 V 
 And one I see, as pleasant to my sight 
 
 As though I saw thro' the gold rift of Morn 
 The goddess of the Spring come forth in Light 
 Wiih flowers, and songs, and beauty earth- 
 ward borne. 
 
 VI 
 She gave it me that golden morn of June, 
 Peerless in beauty, pearl'd with trembling 
 dew. 
 Emblem of her gone from the earth too soon. 
 The flow'r of youth, the tender and the 
 true. 
 
 VII 
 The dew, like the gems fallen from the front 
 of day. 
 Stood on it, stainless as her virgin tears ; 
 Those dewdrops are forever shed away, 
 And she shall weep no more for endless 
 years 
 
 8i 
 
 ^^^^^^^.^ 
 
 'Vll 
 
 •:^ 
 
 ,<£' 
 
 W^S<^/^ 
 
MlAlffHOGM P: 
 
 VIII 
 
 The very music seems to hover by, 
 
 The songs we sang together in the bower, 
 
 I hear the ghostly music with a sigh, 
 The lips are dust that rain'd the silver 
 shower. 
 
 IX 
 
 The wither'd petals of the crimson Rose 
 Are fewer than the Summers that are fled 
 
 Since it was gather'd, and its glory shows 
 Dim as the vanish'd beauty of the dead. 
 
 X 
 
 But still 'tis sweet as her undying words, 
 Her love, that echoes when no longer 
 spoken, 
 And whispering thus of its own prime, re- 
 cords 
 Her youth, and beauty, by the self-same 
 token. 
 
 XI 
 
 As each pale leaflet sadly falls away 
 
 With unavailing grief my heart is stirr'd, 
 
 And each pale leaflet lingering in decay 
 Is graven with a sweet remember'd word. 
 
 82 
 

 ■■-^v^ 
 
 %. 
 
 m0K 
 
 XII 
 
 Before my aged eyes the vision set 
 The fair I was, and the forlorn I am ; 
 
 For, tho' this body casts a shadow yet, 
 The living Is and Was are not the same. 
 
 XIII 
 
 As is the vacant shadow to the man. 
 My soul unto itself was dimly shown ; 
 
 Till from that death in life new hopes began. 
 The Living and the Dead may yet be one. 
 
 XIV 
 
 No more forever shall that Morning be. 
 That self-same rose no more shall blossom 
 here. 
 Thus to be gather' d ; but the parent tree 
 Bears flowers as rich with every passing 
 year. 
 
 XV 
 
 Oh 1 the soft eyes that saw it on the spray — 
 The hand that pluck' d it — and the foot that 
 bore — 
 The smile that graced it on that summer 
 day — 
 When that returns, I can behold no more. 
 83 
 
^^ ffllMTHOC l^ 
 
 XVI 
 No shower shall rear the rose upon its stem 
 For evermore — yet mourn not for the just, 
 The loved, the fair — no tears recover them — 
 And sorrowing souls are sadder than the 
 dust. 
 
 XVII 
 Oh I rather weep, and mourn that from our 
 hearts, 
 When Youth's long Summer-day is at its 
 close. 
 The joy of Nature, and the love departs. 
 More fleetly than the odor from a Rose. 
 
 XVIII 
 Mourn that thy life, a torn and wither' d leaf, 
 
 Flutters, and falls, and in dejection lies, 
 Rent with a thousand cares, and wan with 
 grief, 
 While her glad spirit like sweet odor flies. 
 
 — Frederick Tennyson ( 1 807-1898). 
 
 84 
 
 -^ 
 
 "^. 
 
The flower enamored of the sun, 
 
 At his departure, hangs her head and weeps, 
 
 And shrouds her sweetness up, and keeps 
 
 Sad vigil, Hke a cloister'd nun. 
 
 Till his returning ray appears. 
 
 Waking her beauty as he dries her tears ! 
 
 — Tobin (" London Carcanet "). 
 
 % 
 
 FLOWERS 
 
 Behold yon gaudy painted flower, 
 
 Fair opening to the morning rays. 
 
 It sprang and blossom'd in an hour. 
 
 With night's chill dews its bloom decays, 
 
 Yet simple maidens as they rove. 
 
 Mistake, and call it flower of love. 
 
 But love's true flower before it springs. 
 Deep in the breast its fibre shoots, 
 
 And clasps the heart, and round it clings 
 And fastens by a thousand roots ; 
 
 Then bids its strengthen' d blossoms climb. 
 
 And brave the chilling power of time. 
 
 —Tobin. 
 
X 
 
 iniOl\ - y 
 
^ 
 
 ^JWHoaM ^^ 
 
 Da kamen des Wegs mit Sitten 
 Drei zarte Jungfraulein : 
 " Ihr Wachter, liebe drei Wachter, 
 Laszt uns in den Gartenein! " 
 
 Als die Jungffraun Rosen gebrochen : 
 Da haben sie all gesprochen : 
 "Was blutet mir so die Hand? 
 Hat mich das Roslein gestochen?" 
 
 Da wandelten die drei Wachter 
 Gar treulich vor der Thiir. 
 Die Roslein dufteten stille 
 Und blickten lieblich herfiir. 
 
 Da kamen des Wegs auf Rossen, 
 Drei freche Rittersleut' ; 
 " Ihr Wachter, schnode drei Wachter, 
 Sperret auf die Thiire weit 1 " 
 
 " Die Thiire, die bleibt zu, 
 Die Schwerter die sind blosz, 
 Die Rosen die sind theuer 
 Eine Wunde gilt jegliche Ros'." 
 
 Da stritten die Ritter und Wachter 
 Die Ritter den Sieg erwarben, 
 Zertraten die Roslein all, 
 Mit den Rosen die Wachter starben. 
 87 
 
 t:-. 
 
i"^)) 
 
 
 miimimm^ _ 
 
 Und als es war am Abend, 
 Frau Konigin kam herbei, 
 " Und sind meine Rosen zertreten, 
 Erschlagen die Junglinge treu : 
 
 " So will ich auf Rosenblatter 
 Sie legen in die Erden, 
 Und wo der Rosengarten war, 
 Soil der Liliengarten werden. 
 
 " Wer ist es der die Lilien 
 Mir treulich nun bewacht ? 
 Bei Tage die liebe Sonne, 
 Der Mond und die Sterne bei Nacht " 
 
 — Ludwig U/i/and (17SJ-1862). 
 (Tr. by Taylor ; see p. 7 5). 
 
 XgLM 
 
 
/, 
 
 #=^*\ ' 
 
 Go lovely rose ! 
 
 Tell her that wastes her time and me, 
 
 That now she knows, 
 
 When I resemble her to thee, 
 How sweet and fair she seems to be. 
 
 Tell her, that's young, 
 
 And shuns to have her grace spied, 
 
 That, hadst thou sprung 
 
 In deserts, where no man abide, 
 Thou must have uncommended died. 
 
 Small is the worth, 
 
 Of beauty from the light retired ; 
 
 Bid her come forth. 
 
 Suffer herself to be desired. 
 And not blush so to be admired. 
 
 Then die, that she 
 
 The common fate of all things rare 
 
 May read in thee. 
 
 How small a part of time they share 
 That are so wonderous sweet and fair I 
 —Edmund Waller {\fiOi-\t%T). 
 
 .^ 
 
THE BUD 
 
 Lately on yonder swelling bush, 
 Big with many a coming rose, 
 This early bud began to blush, 
 And did but half itself disclose ; 
 I pluck' d it though no better grown, 
 And now you see how full 'tis blown. 
 
 Still, as I did the leaves inspire, 
 With such a purple light they shone, 
 As if they had been made of fire, 
 And spreading so would flame anon. 
 All that was meant by air and sun. 
 To the young flow'r my breath has done. 
 
 If our loose breath so much can do, 
 What may the same in forms of love, 
 Of purest love and music too, 
 When Flavia it aspires to move ? 
 When that which lifeless buds persuades 
 To wax more soft, her youth invades ? 
 
 — Edmund Waller (1605-16 8 7). 
 
 90 
 
■ ^asMimm^ y^ 
 
 How fair is the rose, what a beautiful flower, 
 
 The glory of April and May 1 
 But the leaves are beginning to fade in an 
 hour, 
 
 And they wither and die in a day. 
 
 Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast. 
 Above all the flowers of the field ; 
 
 When its leaves are all dead, and its fine 
 colors lost, 
 Still how sweet a perfume it will yield 1 
 
 So frail is the youth and the beauty of men. 
 Though they bloom and look gay like the 
 rose; 
 
 But all our fond care to preserve them is vain. 
 Time kills them as fast as he goes. 
 
 Then I'll not be proud of my youth nor my 
 beauty, 
 Since both of them wither and fade ; 
 But gain a good name by well-doing my duty, 
 This will scent like a rose when I am dead. 
 — 2)r. Isaac Watts (1674-1748). 
 
 
 i -'■ 
 
 M 
 
 ^^<^l^ 
 
f"^ 
 
 " Change me, some God, into that breathing 
 
 rose 1 " 
 The love-sick Stripling fancifully sighs. 
 The envied flower beholding, as it has 
 On Laura's breast in exquisite repose, 
 Or he would pass into her bird, that throws 
 The darts of song from out its wiry cage ; 
 Enraptured, — could he for himself engage 
 The thousandth part of which the Nymph be- 
 stows, 
 And what the litde careless innocent 
 Ungraciously receives. Too daring choice I 
 There are whose calmer mind it would con- 
 tent 
 To be an uncuUed floweret of the glen, 
 Fearless of plough and scythe ; or darkling 
 
 wren 
 That tunes on Duddon's banks her slender 
 voice. 
 
 — William Knight Wordsworth {i-jjo-ii^o). 
 
 92 
 
 -^ 
 
 Mf 
 
 ^\i^^^/^vy 
 
mmem. 
 
 Index of Poets 
 
 Anacreon 
 
 Anon 
 
 Barlow, Geo. 
 
 Beaumont & Fletcher 
 
 Burns, Robert 
 
 Byron, George Noel Gordon 
 
 Cavalcant, Messer Guido 
 
 Cleveland, Lucy 
 
 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 
 
 Cuningham . 
 
 Darmsteller, Mrs. . 
 
 Dobson, Austin 
 
 Drown, Daniel Augustus 
 
 Gilder, Richard Watson . 
 
 Gleim, Johann Wilhelm Ludwig 
 
 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 
 
 Haiiz of Shiraz 
 
 Hay, John 
 
 Hawthorne, Hildegarde 
 
 Heine, Heinrich 
 
 Hewitt, Mary 
 
 Hood, Thomas