  No. VI. June, 1837. I. Mother of summer roses! Winter's ling'ring closes Made us fear for thee:— Many a hope was wailing, Thinking thou wert sailing, With thy smile, To some false isle, Upon our tribute sea! II. Mother of summer roses! Nought on earth opposes Our fond claim to thee! Find'st thou welcome dearer? Beauty or minstrels nearer? In the arch Of thy round march Can gentler rest-place be? III. Mother of summer roses, June! thy month discloses All that is sweet and fair: Birds and flower wreathing Minstrel garlands, breathing Song and bloom In one perfume, Reviving the faint air! IV. Mother of summer roses! On thy breast reposes The flush'd cheek of the year: Break not his soft slumbers With rude music-numbers: Mingled gush Of stream and thrush Be all that may come near! W. |
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