Come, lonely, melancholy flow'r,
Who lov'st with me the silent hour,—
Come shed abroad, when stars are high,
Thy faint perfume, thine od'rous sigh.
Yet why should all thy beauties shun
The warm embraces of the sun,
And only to pale Cynthia's ray
Reveal those sweets denied to day?
Ah! 'tis the shade thy spirit seeks,
And of sweet things thy spirit speaks;
With love and death thy vigils are,
Thy breathings of the ev'ning star.
Thus 'tis with many a Child of Song—
When stung by insult and by wrong;
They fear another pang to bear,
And seek the shade and shelter there.