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hose. 
It fed upon the fragrant dew, 
And bathed in beams of light. 
The gentlest zephyrs still would creep 
Warm o’er it from the west; 
And the night spirit loved to weep 
Upon its beauteous breast; 
And all the host of insect beaux 
Would pause to trifle with the rose. 
Alas! the flower—one fatal night 
The mildew rode the gale, 
And from his pinions scattered blight 
O’er gardens, bow’rs, and vale. 
I saw it in the sunny morn 3 
’ Twas dying on its stem. 
Yet wore, though drooping and forlorn* 
Its dewy diadem ! 
But every roving butterfly 
Looked on the rose and wandered by. 
The beams of morning had no pow’r 
Upon its faded cheek; 
The breezes came and found the flow’r 
They once had loved, a wreck; 
They were old friends, and when they fled 
Who used to linger here, 
The rose would bow its gentle head* 
And shake away a tear. 
