Pale Primrose!—lingering for the evening star
    To bless thee with its beam,—like some fair child
Who, ere he rests on Morpheus' downy car,
    Doth wait his mother's blessing, pure and mild,
To hallow his gay dream.—His red lips breathe
    The prompted prayer, fast by that parent's knee,
Even as thou rear'st thy sweetly fragrant wreath
    To matron Evening, while she smiles on thee.—

Go to thy rest, pale flower!—The star hath shed
    His benison upon thy bosom fair,
The dews of Summer bathe thy pensive head,
    And weary man forgets his daily care;—
Sleep on, my rose! till morning gild the sky,
    And bright Aurora's kiss unseal thy trembling eye.