A rose-bud, and from thee! Ah! how my heart
Throbs as I looK upon it!—never yet
Were such rare beauties is a rose-bud met,
As I see here:—these leaves, half blown apart,—
Roseate and soft as are thy lip and cheek,—
Give out a perfume never hid before
In any flower's heart the earth e'er bore.
How lovingly to me all fair things speak
Of thee, the fair'st of all!—of thee, in whom
All beauty is concentred!—Thus this rose,
Fair in itself, with added beauty glows,
And wears a newer and a richer bloom,
Because once touched by thee,—for whose sweet sake
The strains of a long-silent harp I wake.