Thy fruitless blossoms dried appear;

Thy powerless stem all broken, low,

May to the sun no colours show.

O! dark-eyed maid of ill-starr’d birth,

Why camest thou on this evil earth?

Rose amid tangled briars born,

What waits thee from the world but scorn?

A blasting breath around thee, see,

Thy bloom is gone, who’ll ask for thee?

Return, my angel, to thy sphere,