Tis the Last Rose of Summer.

Tis the Last Rose of Summer.
THOMAS MOORE
298.7

“Tis the last rose of summer.
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone:
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud la nigh,
To reflect back her blushes.
Or give aigh for sigh

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem
Since the lovely are sleeping
Go, sleep
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o’er thy bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
When friendshipa decay,
And from love’s shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts ile wither’d,
And fond ones are flown.
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?