Beauty, as the rose of Summer,
For a season looketh gay;
Ere a while it fades and falleth;
So doth beauty pass away.
Charms, the brilliant and enticing,
Sparkle to allure awhile;
But they are the world's vain treasure,
And an outward, fleeting wile.
There is yet a charm more pleasing
Than the outward to behold;
'Tis a humble spirit, easing
Pilgrims onward to the fold.
This the scythe of time shall never
Rob of its adorning grace;
But shall leave it laurels ever
To bedeck its resting place.
'Tis the maiden who shall win them
Walks in virtue's modest way,
Heeding not the world's gay treasure,
Minding not the worldling's way.
Not the maiden who rejoiceth
To abound in vaunting show;
This shall in the time forsake her,
When her hope hath sunken low.