THE ROSE OF MAY. 
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 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 passed away ; 
And their old portraits, prim and tall, 
Are mouldering in the mouldering hall ; 
The terrace and the balustrade 
Lie broken, weedy, and decayed. 
