THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE.

Being weary of love,

I flew to the grove,

And chose me a tree of the fairest;

Saying, “Pretty Rose-tree,

“Thou my mistress shall be,

“And I'll worship each bud thou bearest.

“For the hearts of this world are hollow,

“And fickle the smiles we follow;

“And‘ tis sweet, when all

“Their witcheries pall

“To have a pure love to fly to:

“So, my pretty Rose-tree,

“Thou my mistress shalt be,

“And the only one now I shall sigh to.”

When the beautiful hue

Of thy cheek thro’ the dew

Of morning is bashfully peeping,

“Sweet tears,” I shall say

( As I brush them away ),

“At least there's no art in this weeping”

Altho thou shouldst die to-morrow;

‘ Twill not be from pain or sorrow;

And the thorns of thy stem

Are not like them

With which men wound each other;

So, my pretty Rose-tree,

Thou my mistress shalt be

And I'll never again sigh to another.