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Go, lovely maid! and pluck the rose of life; Soon will it droop and languish on its thorn;Smooth flow thy days, unvex'd by cares or strife, Thy ev'ning calm, and smiling as thy morn!
Of wives the happiest, most belov'd, was I, The envied mother of two lovely boys—But death, unheedful of affection's sigh, In one wide grave has buried all my joys.
Pale is my cheek, and blanch'd with many a tear, While thou art jocund as the summer's day;My form is faded, and my heart is drear, While health is thine, and beauty's bright array.
Oh, Julia! fair, and innocent as fair! May no ungentle sorrow blight thy bloom,When I, the victim of distress and care, Shall shroud my sorrows in the welcome tomb.
Nor can I wish to pour into thy breast Woes that might pierce a bosom hard as steel:—Go, go,—enjoy the moments that are blest, And leave me to the agonies I feel.
Enough, that now my sorrows touch thine ear, And win the gen'rous pity that is due;Enough, if Julia drop the friendly tear, And o'er my grave the simple flow'ret strew.
