Who hangs a garland on the rose?
How idle then the 'broidered vest,
And studded fillet on thy brows,
And pearls that fade upon thy breast;
Twine not with gold thy glossy hair,
That floats, uncheck'd, in lovelier swell;
And scorn the gorgeous gem to bear,
Whose beam thy sparkling eyes excel.
Those dewy lips, that matchless grace,
No borrow'd lustre can enhance;
Trembling, thy potent charms I trace--
But sweet hope lingers in thy glance.