42 The Rose Garden. 



Ah ! soon the soul-entrancing sight 



Subdued th' impatient boy ; 

 He gaz'd, he thrill'd, with deep delight, 



Then clapp'd his wings for joy. 



" And oh ! " he cried, " of magic kind, 



What charms this throne endear ! 

 Some other love let Venus find, 



I'll fix my empire here." 



S. T. Coleridge. 



There's a bower of Roses by Bendemeer's stream, 

 And the nightingale sings round it all the day long ; 



In the days of my childhood 'twas like a sweet dream, 

 To sit 'mid the Roses and hear the bird's song. 



That bower and its music I never forget, 



But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year, 

 I think, Is the nightingale singing there yet ? 



Are the Roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer ? 



No, the Roses soon wither'd that hung o'er the wave, 



But some blossoms were gather'd while freshly they shone, 



And a dew was distill'd from their flowers that gave 

 All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone. 



Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, 



An essence that breathes of it many a year ; 

 Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my eyes, 



Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer. 



Moore. 



'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. 



Thus kindly I scatter 



Thy leaves o'er the bed, 

 Where thy mates of the garden 



Lie scentless and dead ; 

 So soon may I follow 



When friendships decay, 

 And from love's shining circle 



The gems drop away. 

 When true hearts lie wither'd, 



And fond ones are flown, 

 Oh ! who would inhabit 



This bleak world alone ? 



Moore. 



