OSE, WHITE. The god of silence was represented under the form of a young man, with one finger placed on his lips, and holding a white rose in the other hand. We are told that Love gave him this rose to secure his favour. The ancients sculptured a rose over the doors of their festive halls to interdict the guests from repeating anything that was spoken. Byron has rendered it sacred to the silence of the tomb. In the "Bride of Abydos" he says that, o'er the tomb of Zuleika A single rose is shedding Its lovely lustre, meek and pale: SILENCE. Still-born Silence, thou that art Offspring of a heavenly kind; Frost o' th' mouth and thaw o' th' mind; That makes religion mystery; Seize this maid, and make her dumb. FLECKNOE. You know my wishes ever yours did meet: That I should say too little when I speak. CAREW. OSE. Rosa. Class 12, ICOSANDRIA. Order: POLYGYNIA. In producing this flower, nature appears to have exhausted herself by her prodigality, in attempting to create so fine a specimen of freshness, of beauty in form, of exquisite perfume, of brilliancy of colour, and of grace. The rose adorns the whole earth, as it is the commonest of flowers. The same day that its beauty is perfected it dies; but each spring restores it to us with renewed freshness. Poets have had fair opportunities for singing its praises, yet they have not rendered its eulogy common-place, but its name alone redeems their names from forgetfulness. Emblem of all ages,-interpreter of all our sentiments, the rose mingles in the gaiety of our feasts, in our happiness, and in our sorrows. It is also the ornament of beauty, and lends its soft carnation hues to the blush of modesty. It is given as the prize of virtue; and is the image of youth, of innocence, and of pleasure. Venus is said to feel that she has a rival in the rose, as it possesses, like her, a grace which is more lovely than beauty itself. BEAUTY. A native grace Sat fair proportion'd on her polish'd limbs, THOMSON. OSE, MULTIFLORA. Rosa Multiflora. Class 12, ICOSANDRIA. Order: POLYGYNIA. A very beautiful variety of the rose, and justly a favourite among American florists. Its multitude of flowers renders it a suitable ornament for the portico or verandah of a country house, or the window of a boudoir. MANY CHARMS. I know a spot where poets fain would dwell, To live among the treasures they have wrought; Around that hermit-home of quietude, The elm-trees whisper'd with the summer air, Around the door the honey-suckle climb'd, And Multa-flora spread her countless roses, And never minstrel sang nor poet rhymed Romantic scene where happiness reposes, Sweeter to sense than that enchanting dell, Where home-sick memory fondly loves to dwell. ANON. The bloom of opening flowers' unsullied beauty, ROWE. OSE, MUSK. This species of the rose lacks freshness. Its mean flowers would be entirely without effect if they did not grow in panicles, containing from twenty to one hundred or more. They please by their fine and musky odour, exhaled from their white blossoms in the autumnal months. 'Tis said to be a native of Barbary, and is found wild in the hedges and thickets of the kingdom of Tunis. This plant seems full of caprice. It languishes suddenly in situations which at first appeared to be most favourable to its growth,-one year it displays innumerable bouquets, and the next it may not flower at all. CAPRICIOUS BEAUTY. 'Tis not the fairest form, that holds And oft within the rose's bower, A lurking insect lies unknown, Then should a rude wind come at length, Then, lady! cast thy pride away, And chase those rebel thoughts of thine; Yet all within refuse to shine. DAWES. OSE, MOSS. The elegant moss rose commonly supposed to be the offspring the Provence rose, though some conside to belong to the family of hundred-lea roses. It has ever been made the embl of perfected joy; Milton mentions it "without thorn, the rose ;" and an ano mous writer has sung of it in that character. PLEASURE WITHOUT ALLOY. Oh! I love the sweet blooming, the pretty moss rose, "Tis the type of true pleasure, and perfected joy; Oh! I envy each insect that dares to repose 'Midst its leaves, or among its soft beauties to toy. I love the sweet lily, so pure and so pale, Oh! I love the gay hearts-ease, and violet blue, Yet e'en these must yield to my pretty moss rose. Yes, I love my moss rose, for it ne'er had a thorn, 'Tis the type of life's pleasures, unmix'd with its woes; 'Tis more gay, and more bright, than the opening mornYes, all things must yield to my pretty moss rose. Though duller thoughts succeed, The bliss e'en of a moment, still is bliss. ANON. Thou would'st not of her dew-drops spoil the thorn, Nor still the lightsome gambols of the colt, BAILLIE. |