'Tis the first rose of summer that ope's to my view,
With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew;
It bows to its green leaves with pride from its throne,
'Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone. O! Why, lovely stranger, thus early to bloom?
Art thou here to assure us that summer is come?
The primrose and harebell appear with the spring,
But tidings of summer the young roses bring. Thou fair gift of nature, I welcome the boon;
Was't the lark of the morning that 'woke thee so soon?
Yet I weep, thou sweet floweret; for soon from the sky
The lark shall repose where thy leaves withered lie. O! If beauty could save thee, thou ne'er would'st decay,
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.