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"To you, my Celinda, the rose-bud I bring,
"While its leaves are begemm'd with the dew,
"'Tis the darling of Flora, the treasure of spring;
"How lovely an emblem of you.
"But oh! when the roses of beauty and youth,
"Like the bloom of the flower shall decay;
"The myrtle of love and perennial truth,
"Shall be smiling and fresh as in May."
SONNET TO A DYING EXOTIC.
Ah! lovely faded plant, the blight I mourn,
That withered all thy blossoms fair and gay;
I saw thee blushing to the genial May,
And now thy leaves are drooping and forlorn.
I mark'd thy early beauty with a smile,
And saw with pride the crimson buds expand;
They open'd to the sunbeam for a while,
By all the flattering gales of summer fann'd.
Ah! faded plant, I raise thy languid head,
And moisten every leaf with balmy dew;
But now thy rich luxuriant bloom is fled,
Thy foliage wears a pale autumnal hue;
Too soon thy glowing colours have decay'd,
Like thee the flowers of pleasure smile and fade.
