THE ROSES;

Addressed to a Friend, on the Birth of his first Child.

Two Roses on one slender spray,

In sweet communion grew,

Together hail'd the morning ray,

And drank the evening.dew;

While sweetly wreath'd in mossy 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 foster'd on its rising stem,

The bud became a purple gem.

But soon their summer splendour 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, Adorn'd and sanctified the ground.

When thus were all their honours shorn,

The bud unfolding rose,

And blush'd and brighten'd, as the morn From dawn to sunrise glows,

Till o'er each parent's drooping head, The daughter's crowning glory spread.

My Friends! in youth's romantic prime,

The golden age of man,

Like these twin Roses spend your Time,

-Life's little, less'ning 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 gardens of the blest,

Beneath a stormless sky,

You flower afresh, like Aaron's rod,

That blossom'd at the sight of God.

TO AGNES.

Reply to some Lines, beginning, Arrest, O Time! thy fleeting course."

TIME will not check his eager flight,

Though gentle AGNES Scold,

For 'tis the Sage's dear delight

To make young Ladies old.

Then listen, AGNES, friendship sings;

Seize fast his forelock grey,

And pluck from his careering wings

A feather every day.

Adorn'd with these, defy his rage,

And bid him plough your face,

For every furrow of old age

Shall be a line of grace.

Start not; old age

is Virtue's prime ;

Most lovely she appears,

Clad in the spoils of vanquish'd Time,

Down in the vale of years.

Beyond that vale, in boundless bloom,

The eternal mountains rise;

Virtue descends not to the tomb,

Her rest is in the skies.