rkling, till the dawn uch me into bloom,

y being panted

Sur its first perfume,

a paler flower than mine

somed in the gloom!

John Banister Tabb [1845-1909]

EARLY DEATH

SHE passed away like morning dew
Before the sun was high;

So brief her time, she scarcely knew
The meaning of a sigh.

As round the rose its soft perfume,
Sweet love around her floated;
Admired she grew-while mortal doom
Crept on, unfeared, unnoted.

Love was her guardian Angel here,
But Love to Death resigned her;

Though Love was kind, why should we fear
But holy Death is kinder?

Hartley Coleridge [1796-1849]

THE MOSS-ROSE

WALKING to-day in your garden, O gracious lady, Little you thought, as you turned in that alley remote and shady

And gave me a rose, and asked if I knew its savor—

The old-world scent of the moss-rose, flower of a bygone favor

Little you thought, as you waited the word of appraisement,
Laughing at first, and then amazed at my amazement,
That the rose you gave was a gift already cherished,
And the garden whence you plucked it a garden long
perished.

But I-I saw that garden, with its one treasure

The tiny moss-rose, tiny even by childhood's measure.

And the long morning shadow of the rusty laurel, And a boy and a girl beneath it, flushed with a childish quarrel.

She wept for her one little bud; but he, outreaching The hand of brotherly right, would take it for all her be seeching;

Thine eye was soft and glancing,
Of the deep bright blue;

And on the heart thy gentle words
Fell lighter than the dew.

They found thee, Lady Mary,
With thy palms upon thy breast,
Even as thou hadst been praying,
At thine hour of rest:

The cold pale moon was shining
On thy cold pale cheek;
And the morn of the Nativity
Had just begun to break.

They carved thee, Lady Mary,
All of pure white stone,
With thy palms upon thy breast,

In the chancel all alone:

And I saw thee when the winter moon
Shone on thy marble cheek,
When the morn of the Nativity
Had just begun to break.

But thou kneelest, Lady Mary,
With thy palms upon thy breast,
Among the perfect spirits,

In the land of rest.

Thou art even as they took thee

At thine hour of prayer,

Save the glory that is on thee

From the sun that shineth there.

We shall see thee, Lady Mary,

On that shore unknown,

A pure and happy angel

In the presence of the throne;
We shall see thee when the light divine

Plays freshly on thy cheek,

And the resurrection morning

Hath just begun to break.

Henry Alford [1810-1871