Brighten before my glowing face,
And raptured roll in murmurs sweet.
“No flower that blossoms in the wild
Can boast a bloom so rich as mine;
No leaf that Flora’s hand can gild,
May like my polish’d foliage shine.
“Why therefore waste thy tender lay,
On yonder Eglantine so frail,
Whose faded tinges speak decay,
Soon as they open on the gale.