The Transplanted Rose Tree.

Amid the flowers of a garden glade         A lovely rose tree smiled,     And the sunbeams shone, the zephyrs played,         'Round the gardens favorite child;     And the diamond dew-drops glistening fell         On each rose's silken vest,     Whilst light winged bee and butterfly gay         On the soft leaves loved to rest.     But one morn while a sunbeam bright         Lit up its delicate bloom,     And a zephyr lightly hovered 'round,         On wings of sweet perfume,     A strong hand came, and ruthlessly         Tore up the parent tree,     And bore it off, with each fair young rose,         From butterfly, zephyr and bee.     What mattered it that an antique vase         Of Svres costly and old,     Was destined, henceforth, in royal State,         Its fair young form to hold?     What mattered it that the richest silks         Of the far famed Indian loom,     With priceless marbles paintings rare,         Adorned its prison room?     It even pined for the garden free,         For its pleasant friends of yore,     And brooded over the bitter thought,         It would never see them more:     And its young head daily lowlier drooped         Upon its sorrowing breast,     While it chafed against the kindly hand         That tended and caressed.     But Autumn came with angry storms,         With clouded and wintry skies -     Rudely it touched the lovely flowers,         And withered their brilliant dyes;     The sunbeam false hid its glowing glance,         Or with chilling coldness shone;     The zephyr fled to Southern climes,         And the flowers died alone     Then the rose tree looked on the gloomy earth,         On each withered tree and flower,     And it warmly blessed the loving care         Of its new, protecting power: -     No more it mourned past Summer joys,         But brightly blossomed on,     With beauty brighter than when once,         The garden's queen, it shone.