To the Rose in her hair.

Poor little rose, I pity you— Sweet as Oporto's wind when fruity— Tortured an evil hour or two, Just to adorn a wilful beauty.

I know her well, too well, alas! (Just watch the fairy as she dances.) She wears my heart—but let that pass; It's dead: she killed it with her glances.

Your fate, poor rose, is such as mine,— To be despised when you are faded; Yet she's an angel—too divine To be by you or me upbraided.