On Beauty

Exulting Beauty! phantom of an hour! Whose magic spells enchain the heart; Ah! what avails thy fascinating power, Thy thrilling smile, thy witching art? Soon as thy radiant form is seen, Thy native grace, thy timid mien, Thy hour is past—thy charms are vain; Pale Envy haunts thee with her meagre train, Delusive Flattery cheats thy list'ning ear, And Slander stains thy cheek with Sorrow's bitter tear. So have I seen an infant flow'r Bespangled o'er with silv'ry dew, At purple dawn's refreshing hour Glow with warm tints of Tyrian hue. Beneath an aged oak's wide-spreading shade, Where no rude winds, or beating storms invade: Transplanted from its lonely bed, No more it scatters sweets around, No more it rears its fragrant head, No more its sparkling tears begem the ground: For ah! the beauteous flow'r, too soon Scorch'd by the burning glare of day, Faints, at the sultry glow of noon, Droops its enamel'd head—and, blushing, dies away.