But vanish when the noontide hour
Glows fiercely on the shrinking flower—
Thus in thy soul each calm delight,
Like morn’s first dew-drops, pure and bright,
Fled swift from passion’s blighting fire,
Or linger’d only to expire!
Spring on thy native hills again
Shall bid neglected wild-flowers rise,
And call forth, in each grassy glen,
Her brightest emerald dyes!