Thy fragrance exhausted, thy loveliness fled.
'Tis the bright and the happy, the fresh and the gay,
Alone that are fitted to flaunt in man's sight,
When withered, far better to cast them away,
Than to mock their dull hues with the glitter of light.
No culture can ever restore thee thy bloom,
Or waken thy odour, or raise up thy head,
The wretch's last refuge, the dust and the tomb,
Is all I can give, now thy sweetness has fled.
O who would live on, when life's brightness is past,