THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER 141 



The lizard stops on its brim to listen, 



The butterfly wavers dreamily near, 

 And the dragon-flies in their green mail glisten, 



And watch her, as pausing she drops a tear 



Not as she stood in her August perfection ! 



Not as she looked in the freshness of June ! 

 But gazing around with a tender dejection, 



And a weary face like the morning moon. 



The breeze through the leafy garden quivers, 



Dying away with a sigh and moan : 

 A shade o'er the darkening fountain shivers, 



And Summer, ghost-like, has vanished and gone. 



WILLIAM WETMOEE STORY. 



THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER 



'Tis the last Rose of Summer, 



Left blooming alone, 

 All her lovely companions 



Are faded and gone ; 

 No flower of her kindred, 



No rose-bud is nigh, 

 To reflect back her blushes, 



Or give sigh for sigh. 



I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, 

 To pine on the stem, 

 Since the lovely are sleeping, 

 Go sleep thou with them ; 



