THE ROSE OF MAY. 103 
Children of spring! 
Yet still your blossoms bear 
Power of refined delight; 
Ye bid me sing 
Of dreams and days the vulgar cannot share ; 
In fortune’s proud despite 
I give thee welcoming. 
—Wordsworth. 
THE ROSE OF MAY. 
Ah ! 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 shrine 
In modern gardens trim and fine ;— 
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; 
