104 THE ROSE OF MAY. 
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 display’d 
Along the old stone balustrade ; 
And ancient ladies, quaintly dight, 
In its pink blossoms took delight, 
And on the steps would make a stand, 
To scent its sweetness, fan in hand. 
Long have been dead those ladies gay; 
Their very heirs have pass’d away; 
And their old portraits prim and tall 
Are mouldering in the mouldering hall; 
The terrace and the balustrade 
Lie broken, weedy, and decay’d. 
But lithe and tall, the rose of May 
Shoots upward through the ruin grey ; 
With scented flower and leaf pale-green, 
Such rose as it hath ever been ; 
Left, like a noble deed, to grace 
The memory of an ancient race ! 
—Mrs.IIowitt. 
