Ah, roses of June, you never looked on a face so white and fair,
Such perfectly moulded lips, such sweet and heavenly eyes.

This low-walled home is dear to her, she has come to it to-day
From the lordly groves of her palace home afar,
But not to stay; there's a light on her brow like the light
of a star,
And her eyes are looking beyond the earth, far, far away.

She was born in this cottage home, the sweetest rosebud of spring,
And grew with its flowers, the fairest blossom of all,
Till her friends ambitiously said she would grace
the kingliest hall,
And flattery breathed on her ear its passionate whispering.

A man of riches and taste saw the maiden's face,
And thought her beauty would grace his stately southern home,
So he took her there, with pictures from France, and
statues from Rome,
And marvellous works of art from many an ancient place.

He decked her in costly attire, and showed her beauty with pride
As for sympathy and love, what need of these had she?
He had placed her amidst the choicest treasures of land and sea,
His marble Hebe never complained, and why should his bride?

He had polished the beautiful unknown gem and set it in gold,
He had given her his name and his wealth, what more
could she ask?
When all other gifts were hers, it were surely an easy task