More sad the Myrtle's hue appears,
The Jasmine's silver star is dim;
Surpass'd by thee, thou seest the tears
That tremble on the Harebell's brim.
The Woodland Lily's silver cup
Was never seen to droop as now,
It dares not lift its flowerets up
To gaze upon thy gentle brow.
How canst thou look thus calmly on,
And watch them slowly die the while?