No cheerless thoughts will ever there abide
Where Mirze's smiles diffuse a bliss around,
For dull-eyed care still flies with lightning bound
Where blooming youth and florid health reside.
Late when I mused—wherefore did nature try
To make a work so perfect if decay
A few brief summers hence assert its sway? —
An answer came each drooping thought to free,
For thee, thus Fancy spoke, Age has no mask,
For thee Death's armourer no bolt would bring
And when to mar thy bloom toward thee they wing.
They must but feign to do their graceless task.
Thus all those charms will pass into the skies,
And well if angels then continue wise.