THE 



WITHERED ROSE. 



How art thou chang'd, once blooming tree! when last 

 Amid these paths I gave my feet to stray, 

 Cherish'd by gales, and show'rs, and summer's ray, 



Fair didst thou flourish.... But thy hour is past ; 



And, scatter'd by the fury of the blast, 



Thy blushing flow'rs, the gift of rosy May, 

 Thy buds, and verdant leaves, are whirl'd away, 



And all thy honours to the earth are cast.... 



Ah! yet a little, and the breath of Spring 



Shall crown thee with fresh flow'rs; again shall bring 

 Fragrance to thy buds, and new-born bloom 



Again shall fan thee with propitious wing. 



But oh! what Spring shall dawn upon the gloom 

 That pensive thinks upon the silent tomb? 



Bayley, 



THE SAME SUBJECT. 



Mark yon Hose, once Summer's darling pride, 



That threw its blooming odours far and wide, 



Now all its bright, its blushing honours past ; 



Too dazzling fair, alas ! and sweet to last. 



But yet, though scatter'd be each silken leaf 



By cruel Time, that sad despoiling thief, 



Still from those leaves exhale a rich perfume; 



Still they are sweet, though they have ceas'd to bloom. 



So lov'd remembrances of joys long fled 



O'er the sad heart their soothing influence shed: 



While in the breast is saved each wither'd leaf 



Of past delight,... to sooth its present grief. 



Mary Pye. 



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