But, alas! soon thou’lt perish and wither away;
And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair,
Yet I’ll mourn, lonely rose-bud, when thou art not there.
Robert Gilfillan. 1831.
The First Rose of Summer.
’Tis the first rose of summer
That blushing steals forth,
Still doubtful, and fearing
The blight of the north;