I see all my sister flow’rets fade,
In their blighted beauty around me lying;
Yet only of me ’tis sung, and said—
Alas! for the rose—so early dying!”
“Be not displeased with us, loveliest one”—
Said a fair young maiden standing by her—
“ ’Tis not that thy race is so swiftly run,
But we wish that thy destiny were higher:
We see all the flowers around us die—
And deem it their fate; but thee, their sovereign,