'Tis said the rose is Love's own flower, 
Its blush so bright, its thorns so many; 
And winter on its bloom has power, 
But has not on its sweetness any. 
For though young Love's ethereal rose 
Will droop on Age's wintry bosom, 
Yet still its faded leaves disclose 
The fragrance of their earliest blossom.

But ah! the fragrance lingering there 
Is like the sweets that mournful duty 
Bestows with sadly-soothing care, 
To deck the grave of bloom and beauty. 
For when its leaves are shrunk and dry, 
Its blush extinct, to kindle never, 
That fragrance is but Memory's sigh, 
That breathes of pleasures past for ever. 

Why did not Love the amaranth choose, 
That bears no thorns, and cannot perish ?
Alas! no sweets its flowers diffuse, 
And only sweets Love's life can cherish. 
But be the rose and amaranth twined, 
And Love, their mingled powers assuming, 
Shall round his brows a chaplet bind, 
For ever sweet, for ever blooming.