O Rose! within my bloomy croft,

Where hidden sweets compacted dwell,

The wanton wind with breathings soft,

To perfect flower thy bud shall swell,

Then steal thy rich perfume,

Tarnish both grace and bloom,

Until, thy pearly prime being past,

Withered and dead thou'lt lie at last.

O gleaming Night! whose cloudy hair

Waves dark amid its woven light,

Bestudded thick with jewels rare,

Than royal diadem more bright,

Lo! the white hands of Day

Shall strip thy gauds away,

And in the twilight of the morn

Mock thy estate with cold-eyed scorn.

My love, O Rose! hath had a day

As fair, a fate as quick, as thine:

All wrapped in perfumed sleep I lay

Till my fond fancies grew divine,

And sweet Elysium seemed

Around me as I dreamed.

The rose is dead, the dawn comes fast:

Joy dies, but grief awakes at last.

F.A. HILLARD.