7
SONNET.
Bright Rose! that on my Father's honoured vest
Hath shed sweet perfume, breathing on his sense
The gales and odours spring's young suns dispense
O'er opening flowers, in early fragrance drest.—
Bright rose! now sacred are thy fading leaves,
And dear thy withered stem—for thou dost tell
Of hours of peace and love remembered well,
A father's love, of winch time ne'er bereaves.
Oh! be it mine like thee to shed delight
On Iris autumnal day, and sweetly cheer
The lingering hours of the declining year,
And keep cold winter's blast long, long away.
So, like thy fragrant flowers, shall thought of me
Unto his sold sweetness and sunshine be!
Hath shed sweet perfume, breathing on his sense
The gales and odours spring's young suns dispense
O'er opening flowers, in early fragrance drest.—
Bright rose! now sacred are thy fading leaves,
And dear thy withered stem—for thou dost tell
Of hours of peace and love remembered well,
A father's love, of winch time ne'er bereaves.
Oh! be it mine like thee to shed delight
On Iris autumnal day, and sweetly cheer
The lingering hours of the declining year,
And keep cold winter's blast long, long away.
So, like thy fragrant flowers, shall thought of me
Unto his sold sweetness and sunshine be!
