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Are they sighs of sorrow, my sweet flowers!
That with your fragrant breath you waft me up?
You never more will see day's sunny hours,
But languish life away in that fair cup.


With loving, eager hand I snapt your stems,
With all their blossoms wet with dew of morn,
Nor deemed the trembling drops like flashing gems,
Were tears of silent grief that you were torn.


Sweet flowers!--ah, many maids there are like you,
Snatched from their native shades, that for a while
Drink deep of pleasure's gilded cup, and rue
The false allurement of her fatal smile!


Then 'tis not due to me such incense sweet,
'Twas I who caused your drooping forms to mourn,
Who thought your bright eyes glistened to entreat,
That I would bear your boughs my room t' adorn.


Oh! you are like fair martyrs in your death,
Bowing your lovely heads to those who slay;
Returning good for ill, with latest breath,
And, with your souls serene, passing away.