THE ROSE OF MAY. 
BY MARY HOW ITT 
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 shine 
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; 
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; 
