Once, in a glen secluded far from view, Beside a broken wall, wild roses grew; And ever in the golden month of June, When nature's sweetest voices were in tune, When all the flowers, in wonderful array, Made this fair month their chosen holiday,
Dainty and shy, my winsome beauties came, Their cheeks with bashful blushes all aflame. O, dearest, fairest roses in the land! The humblest ones of all this regal band, They clothe themselves in sweet simplicity, And win our love by their soft witchery.
Again I visit this enchanted glen, Where. in my childhood, I so oft have been; After the years have written on my face The tell-tale lines their ruthless fingers trace, Hoping to find my roses blooming there, In all their old-time beauty, fresh and fair.
Again I trace the path the orchard through, And far adown the sloping hillside, too; Through wide green fields with violets dotted o'er, And golden buttercups, sweet as of yore; Where strawberries cluster richly at my feet, And bid me welcome to their treasures sweet.
I find, at last, the ruined, broken wall, Half hidden now by vines and brambles tall. Ah! nevermore shall I my roses see! They all are gone—not one is left to me! Over me here a sombre shadow falls, While half-forgotten scenes the past recalls.
Sad memories come unbidden to my heart. Thus, from my sight, my friends did all depart,— The girlish friends I loved so long ago,— They each and all lie 'neath the daisies low,— And, seeking now the love my heart still craves, I find, alas! their silent, grass-grown graves.
