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Mary Darby Robinson - The Faded Bouquet
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FAIR was this blushing ROSE of May,
  And fresh it hail`d morn`s breezy hour,
When ev`ry spangled leaf look`d gay,
  Besprinkled with the twilight show`r;
When to its mossy buds so sweet,
  The BUTTERFLY enamour`d flew,
And hov`ring o`er the fragrant treat,
  Oft bath`d its silken wings in dew. 

SWEET was this PRIMROSE of the dale,
  When on its native turf it grew;
And deck`d with charms this LILY pale,
  And rich this VIOLET`S purple hue;
This od`rous WOODBINE fill`d the grove
  With musky gales of balmy pow`r;
When with the MYRTLE interwove
  It hung luxuriant round my bow`r. 

AH ! ROSE, forgive the hand severe,
  That snatch`d thee from thy scented bed;
Where, bow`d with many a pearly tear,
  Thy widow`d partner droops its head;
And thou, sweet VI`LET, modest flow`r,
  O! take my sad, relenting sigh; 
Nor stain the breast whose glowing pow`r,
  With too much fondness bade thee die. 

SWEET LILY had I never gaz`d
  With rapture on your gentle form;
You might have dy`d, unknown, unprais`d,
  The victim of some ruthless storm;
Where fickle LOVE his altar rears,
  Your little bells had learnt to wave;
Or sadly gemm`d with kindred tears,
  Had deck`d some hapless MAIDEN`s grave. 

Inconstant WOODBINE, wherefore rove
  With gadding stem about my bow`r?
Why, with my darling MYRTLE wove,
  In bold defiance mock my pow`r?
Why quit thy native, lonely vale,
  To flaunt thy buds, thy odours fling;
And idly greet the passing gale,
  On ev`ry wanton zephyr`s wing? 

Yet, yet, repine not, tho` stern FATE
  Hath nipp`d thy leaves of varying hue;
Since all that`s lovely, soon or late,
  Shall sick`ning, fade,­and die like you.
The fire of YOUTH­the frost of AGE,
  Nor WISDOM S voice­nor BEAUTY`S bloom,
Th` insatiate tyrant can assuage,
  Or stop the hand that seal`d YOUR DOOM.
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