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; All these are 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; And ancient ladies, quaintly dight, In its pink blossoms took delight; And on the steps would make a stand To scent its fragrance - 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. But blithe and tall the Rose of May Shoots upward through the ruin gray; With scented flower, and leaf pale green, Such rose as it hath never been, Left, like a noble deed, to grace The memory of an ancient race.