Eliza Acton

Nay! Take the Rose

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.