They pass—those ‘children of the sun,’)
With Fancy’s flowers, each wing of light,
And gems from Reason’s casket won.
The Passion-flower has no perfume,—
No soul to linger when it dies;
For lighter hearts such buds may bloom,
But, oh! be ours more proudly wise.
And wouldst thou bind my soul to thine,
Bid Truth and Wisdom forge the chain;
Nor o’er its links, as bright they twine,