77 
What than the many-tinted bow 
Which on the deepening cloud doth glow, 
Like vision fair, may better show 
Thy hopes and joys? 
The flow’ret’s leaves our path shall strew, 
The dawning brightness mock our view, 
And heavier drops than morning dew 
Weigh down the rose. 
And thus thy bloom, thy smiles must fade, 
Thus die each hope of fancy bred, 
And sorrow bow thy weary head, 
Like storms the rose. 
Yet weep not — for there is a sphere 
Where joy ne’er turns into a tear, 
Unchanging bliss alone is there — 
Oh, be it thine ! 
