With sighs, sweet rose, I mark thy faded form, So late bedecked with many a flow'ret gay; Thy tender frame has shrunk beneath the storm, And all thy charms are verging to decay. Yet whilst I mourn, loved plant, thy early doom, Poor hapless victim of the pitying shower, Reflection whispers, then again shall bloom, And joyful feel the sun's reviving power; Returning spring thy beauties shall renew, Again the breeze shall waft thy sweets along; Thy fragrant flowers, enchanting to the view, Shall live for ever in the poet's song; Whilst I, with unavailing tears, deplore, Dear happy hours that can return no more.
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