To Constantia

The rose that drinks the fountain dew

In the pleasant air of noon,

Grows pale and blue with altered hue--

In the gaze of the nightly moon;

For the planet of frost, so cold and bright,

Makes it wan with her borrowed light.

Such is my heart--roses are fair,

And that at best a withered blossom;

But thy false care did idly wear

Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom;

And fed with love, like air and dew,

Its growth--