I saw the wild rose on its parent thorn, Half-clos'd, soft blushing, thro' the glittering dew, Wave on the breeze and scent the breath of morn; Lelia, the lovely flower resembled you. Scarce had it spread to meet the orb of day, Its fragrant beauties opening to the view, When ruffian blasts have torn the rose away: -- Lelia, -- alas! it still resembles you! So torn by wild and lawless passion's force From every social tie thy lot must be; At last oblivion shades thy future course, And still the hapless flower resembles thee! |