Sweet flower! so young, so fresh, so fair,
Bright pleasure sparkling in thine eye,
Alas! e’en thee time will not spare,
And thou must die.
The heart with youthful hope so gay,
That scarcely ever breathed a sigh,
Must weep o’er pleasures fled away,
For all must die.
But though the rosy cheek may fade,
The virtuous wish, the purpose high,
The bloom with which the soul’s arrayed,
Shall never die.