Why did’st thou not preserve my precious Rose,
Whose perfume breathed of immortality,
Whose colour made her queen of all that grows?
“May’st thou become a desert parched and dry,
And may the flowers that grow within thee fade;
May thy protecting walls in ruin lie—
By ruthless feet thy soil in waste be laid.
“Ye trees, now cast away your verdant leaves,
And rushing torrents, your swift courses stay.
Reckless I speak, as one who sorely grieves,