Torn from its fost’ring stem it dies,
A victim to the ruthless storm.
How fair it shone at early morn,
How lovely deck’d in verdant pride,
It blush’d luxuriant on the thorn,
And shed its sweets on ev’ry side.
How fair the morning of my day,
Now chang’d, alas! to horrid gloom,
My joys are fled, far, far away,
And buried lie in Anna’s tomb.