Song

The rose just bursting into bloom,

Admired where'er 'tis seen,

Dispenses round a rich perfume,

The garden's pride and queen;

But gathered from its native bed,

No longer charms the eye;

Its vivid tints are quickly fled,

'Twill wither, droop and die.

So woman, when by nature drest

In charms devoid of art,

Can reign sole empress in each breast,

Can triumph o'er each heart;

Can bid the soul to virtue rise,

To virtue prompt the brave;

But sinks oppressed, and drooping dies,

If once she's made a slave.