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TO THE ROSE.
3.He bathed thee in his own rich hue,The blood divine of Beauty, sheWho, naked, pure, and rosy, drewHer being from the frothy sea;But this, oh this, voluptuous flower!Can ne'er abate the searching ray;That flame licentious, in an hour,Thy bloom of beauty steals away,Rifling thy bosom to its core,Which, once expanded, shuts no more!
4.Fast pale thy burning wings, fast curlThy leaves,—the blithe bee, murmuring round,Strikes them, and, one by one, they whirl,Decayed and scentless, to the ground.So closely joined thy life appearsWith thy decay, that scarce I knowIf sad Aurora, in the tearsShe weeps for thee, would wish to showGrief for thy birth or for thy death,Sweet creature of celestial breath!
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