A rose I mark'd the other day,
The garden's gayest pride;
And as it hasten'd to decay,
To Emma thus I cried:

'Behold, sweet maid, that dying flow'r,
'Which late perfum'd the air:
'It bloom'd--it wither'd in an hour--
'Just emblem of the fair!

'In life's gay summer, Beauty's charms
'Awhile may give delight;
'But soon Misfortune's bitter storms
'The blooming bud may blight.

'Struck by the conq'ring hand of Time,
'Thus youth with beauty flies:
'Then, O sweet flow'ret, in thy prime,
'The present moment prize!'