THANKS to September’s Indian summer, roses are still blooming in profusion, so Thomas Moore’s elegy from his Irish Melodies may seem a little premature. But its sentiments, tied to a sweet melody, made it a popular round-the year song for Victorian drawing rooms.

’T IS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER

’T is the last rose of summer,

Left blooming alone;

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone;

No flower of her kindred,

No rosebud is nigh,

To reflect back her blushes

Or give sigh for sigh!

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them;

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o’er the bed,

Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendship decay,

And from love’s shining circle

The gems drop away!

When true hearts lie wither’d,

And fond ones have flown,

Oh! Who would inhabit

This bleak world alone?