Eliza Acton

Nay! Take the Rose

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Nay! take the Rose, ere yet its grace,
Its freshness, and its bloom, are gone;
And be thy heart its resting place
Until its young, sweet life be flown;
For on that breast of honour shrin'd,
A glorious death my flow'r will find;
And it must perish soon--with thee
It will but fade less lingeringly.
Its leaves are tinted with the flush
Of summer sunsets,-- but that blush,
Radiant as Love's, will pass away
As dies in heav'n the smile of day.

Its breath is odour's essence ;--ne'er
Before did bud, or blossom, bear
Such soul of perfume--oh! that aught
So beautiful, should be so frail!
It wakes a tone of sad'ning thought
To dwelt upon its silent tale ;--
Not for itself--but that it is
An emblem of all human bliss.

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Eliza Acton