  Ungrateful he who pluckt thee from thy stalk, Poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way, Inhal'd awhile thine odours on his walk, Then past along, and left thee to decay. Thou melancholy emblem! had I seen Thy modest beauties dew'd with evening's gem, I had not rudely cropt thy parent stem, But left thy blossom still to grace the green; And now I bend me o'er thy wither'd bloom, And drop the tear, as Fancy, at my side Deep-sighing, points the fair frail Emma's tomb; "Like thine, sad flower! was that poor wanderer's pride! O, lost to love and truth! whose selfish joy Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy." BION. Vignette
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