THE ROSE OF MAY. 



BY MARY HOWITT. 



All, there's the Lily, marble pale, 

 The bonny Broom, the Cistus frail. 

 The rich Sweet-pea, the Iris blue. 

 The Larkspur with its peacock hue ; 

 Each one is fair yet hold I will 

 That the Rose of May is fairer still. 



'Tis grand 'neath palace walls to grow ; 

 To blaze where lords and ladies go ; 

 To hang o'er marble founts, and shine 

 In modern gardens trim and tine ; — 

 But the Rose of May is only seen 

 Where the great of other days have been. 



The house is mouldering stone by stone ; 

 The garden-walks are overgrown ; 

 The flowers are low ; the weeds are high 

 The fountain stream is choked and dry ; 

 The dial-stone with Moss is green 

 Where'er the Rose of May is seen. 



The Rose of May its pride displayed 

 Along the old stone balustrade ; 



