The Rose Poem by Robert Anderson

A rose I mark'd the other day,
The garden's gayest pride;
And as it hasten'd to decay,
To Emma thus I cried:

`Behold, sweet maid, that dying flow'r,
`Which late perfum'd the air:
`It bloom'd--it wither'd in an hour--
`Just emblem of the fair!

`In life's gay summer, Beauty's charms
`Awhile may give delight;
`But soon Misfortune's bitter storms
`The blooming bud may blight.

`Struck by the conq'ring hand of Time,
`Thus youth with beauty flies:
`Then, O sweet flow'ret, in thy prime,
`The present moment prize!'