"THE FASHION OF THIS WORLD PASSETH AWAY."
1 Corinthians VII. 31.
A Rose upon her mossy stem,
Fair Queen of Flora's gay domain,
All graceful wore her diadem,
The brightest 'mid the brilliant train;
But Evening came, with frosty breath,
And ere the quick return of Day,
Her beauties in the blight of death
Had past away.
I saw when morning gemmed the sky
A fair young creature gladly rove,
Her moving lip was melody,
Her varying smile the charm of love,
At eve I came—but on her bed
She drooped—with forehead pale as clay,
"What dost thou here?"—she faintly said
"Passing away."
I looked on manhood's towering form
Like some tall oak when tempests blow,
That scorns the fury of the storm
And strongly strikes its root below,
Again I looked,—with idiot cower
His vacant eye's unmeaning ray
