Nay! take the Rose, ere yet its grace,
Its freshness, and its bloom, are gone;
And be thy heart its resting place
Until its young, sweet life be flown;
For on that breast of honour shrin'd,
A glorious death my flow'r will find;
And it must perish soon-with thee
It will but fade less lingeringly.
Its leaves are tinted with the flush
Of summer sunsets,- but that blush,
Radiant as Love's, will pass away
As dies in heav'n the smile of day.

Its breath is odour's essence ;-ne'er
Before did bud, or blossom, bear
Such soul of perfume-oh! that aught
So beautiful, should be so frail!
It wakes a tone of sad'ning thought
To dwelt upon its silent tale ;-
Not for itself-but that it is
An emblem of all human bliss.