And then the sound seemed to change to one of lamentation, and the floral procession seemed to be a funeral, and a deep, melancholy voice, like the one he had heard in the woods in the morning, sang,—
"Weep, for the rose is withered!
The North Carolina rose!"
He struggled heavily in his sleep, and, at last waking, sat up and looked about him. The rays of the evening sun were shining on the tree-tops of the distant avenue, and Nina was singing on the veranda below. He listened, and the sound floated up like a rose-leaf carried on a breeze:—
"The summer hath its heavy cloud,
The rose-leaf must fall,
But in our land joy wears no shroud—
Never doth it pall!
Each new morning ray
Leaves no sigh for yesterday—