Rich is the odour of the Brier,
And beauteous is the Larkspur’s hue.
“But ah, since fate with stinted hand
Allots to each her little day,
Let Peace its morning beam command,
And gild serene its evening ray.
“For on the wing of Speed draws near,
Old Death, too faithful to his trust,
And soon the unlovely and the fair
Alike shall crumble into dust.”