Its beautiful tint is traced to another source by a modern poet: As erst in Eden’s blissful bowers, Young Eve surveyed her countless flowers, An opening Rose of purest white She marked with eye that beamed delight, Its leaves she kissed, and straight it drew From beauty’s lip the vermeil hue. _Carey._ The poets have not exaggerated the beauty of the red-hued Rose. She would be crowned Queen of the Flowers by the most unpoetical. The emblem of all ages, the interpreter of all our feelings, the Rose mingles with our festivities, our joys, and our griefs. Its fragrance is as delightful as its hues; and no truer emblem of love and beauty could have been chosen. I have cherished A love for one whose beauty would have charmed In Athens. And I know what ’tis to love A spiritual beauty, and behind the foil Of an unblemished loveliness, still find Charms of a higher order, and a power Deeper and more resistless. Had I found Such thoughts and feelings, such a clear deep stream Of mind in one whom vulgar men had thrown As a dull pebble from them, I had loved Not with a love less fond, nor with a flame Of less devotion. _Percival._ * * * * * There’s no miniature In her face, but is a copious theme, Which would, discoursed at large of, make a volume. What clear arched brows! what sparkling eyes! the lilies Contending with the roses in her cheeks, Who shall most set them off. What ruby lips!-- Or unto what can I compare her neck, But to a rock of crystal? Every limb Proportioned to love’s wish, and in their neatness Add lustre to the richness of her habit, Not borrowed from it. _Massinger._ PEONY.... _Anger_. The Peony is chosen as the emblem of Anger from its red and fiery hues. It is a large double flower, and presents a superb appearance; but is almost destitute of scent. I am burned up with inflaming wrath; A rage, whose heat hath this condition, That nothing can allay, nothing but blood, The blood, and dearest valued blood, of France. _Shakspeare._ * * * * * The wildest ills that darken life Are rapture to the bosom’s strife; The tempest, in its blackest form, Is beauty to the bosom’s storm; The ocean, lashed to fury loud, Its high wave mingling with the cloud, Is peaceful, sweet serenity, To anger’s dark and stormy sea. _J. W. Eastburne._ * * * * * Oh, that my tongue were in the thunder’s mouth! Then with a passion would I shake the world. _Shakspeare._ NETTLES.... _Cruelty_.