POETRY OF THE ROSE. 95 



Or in the mossy dell, 



Where the pale primrose trembles at a breath ; 

 Or where the lily, by the silent well, 



Beholds her form beneath ; 



Or where the rich queen-rose 



Sits, throned and blushing, 'midst her leaves and moss ; 

 Or where the wind-flower, pale and fragile, blows ; 



Or violets banks emboss. 



MARY ANNE BROWNE. 



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 



And 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 on 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. 



