O flow'r which once the meadow grac'd

O flow'r which once the meadow grac'd,

But wither'd now, and unremember'd,

With all thy blooming charms defac'd,

By autumn's cruel wrath dismember'd.

We, too, shall find as mournful end,

Before the same cold storms we're quailing;

Their blasts will all our pleasures rend,

Chase them afar, and leave us wailing.

Within our hearts there dies each day,

Some sweet delight, some fairest seeming;

And not an hout which flows away,

But leaves us sad with fruitless dreaming.

Thy star of hope is fair to see,

Yet quickly fade its beams alluring;

Nor know we if our lives shall be

Than any flow'ret more enduring.