Thou pale withered flower, oh! once thou wert fair,
But now ev’ry leaf has been nipped by a blight—
Dost thou pine for the bosom, its fragrance to share,
Whence I won thee, sweet nestler, at parting one night?
How beauteous thy head, as it modestly stoop’d
Its blushes to hide in her bosom of snow—
How sweetly above thee her fair tresses droop’d—
How pure was the heart beating stilly below!
Oh! sweet was her smile as the first blush of Eve,
And soft was her voice as the low summer wind,
When she gave thee away, half reluctant to leave,
Like an angel from heaven sent down to mankind.
I have cherished thee since as if never to part,
Thou remindest me so of that fair girl away;—
But, ah! can I banish the blight from thy heart,
Or save thee from withering day after day?
And thus, oh! how often, the ones we love best,
Drop away from our sides like the roses in June—
But why should we weep? since they pass to their rest,
And if parted awhile, we shall follow them soon.
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