Ah, me! the blooming pride of May,
And that of Beauty are but one:
At morn both flourisht, bright and gay,
Both fade at evening, pale and gone.
At dawn poor Stella danced and sung,
The amorous youth around her bowed,
At night her fatal knell was rung;
I saw, and kissed her in her shroud.
Such as she is who died to-day,
Such I, alas, may be to-morrow: