’TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. BY THOMAS MOORE.

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

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

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