A BLOWN ROSE.

Lay but a finger on

That pallid petal sweet,

It trembles gray and wan

Beneath the passing feet.

But soft! blown rose, we know

A merriment of bloom,

A life of sturdy glow,—

But no such dear perfume.

As some good bard, whose page

Of life with beauty's fraught,

Grays on to ripe old age

Sweet-mellowed through with thought.

So when his hoary head

Is wept into the tomb,

The mind, which is not dead,

Sheds round it rare perfume.