94 THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 
Now autumn’s pensive voice is heard 
Amid the yellow bowers, 
The robin is the regal bird, 
And thou the queen of flowers ! 
He sings on the laburnum trees. 
Amid the twilight dim. 
And Araby ne’er gave the breeze 
Such scents as thou to him. 
Rich is the pink, the lily gay. 
The rose is summer’s guest; 
Bland are thy charms when these decay— 
Of flowers, first, last, and best! 
There may be gaudier on the bower. 
And statelier on the tree ; 
But wall-flower, loved wall-flower, 
Thou art the flower for me! 
—Moir. 
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, 
