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:
It looks as planted by despair-
So white, so faint, the slightest gale
Might whirl the leaves on high.

SILENCE.

Still-born Silence, thou that art
Floodgate of the deeper heart;

Offspring of a heavenly kind;

Frost o' th' mouth and thaw o' th' mind;
Secrecy's confidant, and he

That makes religion mystery;
Admiration's speaking'st tongue
Leave thy desert shades, among
Reverend hermits' hallow'd cells,
Where retired'st devotion dwells;
With thy enthusiasms come;

Seize this maid, and make her dumb.

FLECKNOE.

You know my wishes ever yours did meet:
If I be silent, 't is no more but fear

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,
Veil'd in a simple robe, their best attire,
Beyond the pomp of dress; for loveliness
Needs not the foreign aid of ornament,
But is, when unadorn'd, adorn'd the most;
Thoughtless of beauty, she was Beauty's self,
Recluse amid the close embowering woods.
As in the hollow breast of Apennine,
Beneath the shelter of encircling hills,
A myrtle rises far from human eye,
And breathes its balmy fragrance o'er the wild;
So flourish'd, blooming, and unseen by all,
The sweet Lavinia.

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 gather flowers and food for afterthought,
As bees draw honey from the rose's cell,

To live among the treasures they have wrought;
And there a cottage from a sylvan screen,
Sent up its curling smoke amidst the green.

Around that hermit-home of quietude,

The elm-trees whisper'd with the summer air,
And nothing ever ventured to intrude,
But happy birds that caroll'd wildly there,
Or honey-laden harvesters that flew
Humming away to drink the morning dew.

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,
Softness, and sweetest innocence she wears,
And looks like nature in the world's first spring.

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
The mildest, purest soul within;
'Tis not the richest plant that folds
The sweetest breath of fragrance in;

And oft within the rose's bower,

A lurking insect lies unknown,
That steals the honey from the flower,
Before its outward grace has flown.

Then should a rude wind come at length,
To break the quiet reigning round,
The flower that had the look of strength,
Falls scarcely heeded to the ground.

Then, lady! cast thy pride away,

And chase those rebel thoughts of thine;
The casket may be bright and gay,

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,
With a bosom as fair as the new-fallen snows;
Her luxuriant odours she spreads through the vale,
Yet e'en she must yield to my pretty moss rose.

Oh! I love the gay hearts-ease, and violet blue,
The sun-flower and blue-bell, each flow'ret that blows,
The fir-tree, the pine-tree, acacia, and yew,

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,
Because her glory will not last till noon;

Nor still the lightsome gambols of the colt,
Whose neck to-morrow's yoke will gall. Fye on't!
If this be wise, 't is cruel.

BAILLIE.