O'er the Zephyr, sportive minion,
Spreads the blue, aurelian pinion.
Now in love's low whispers winging,
Now in giddy fondness clinging,
With all a lover's warmth he wooes thee,
With all a lover's wiles pursues thee.

And thou wilt yield, and thou wilt give
The sigh that none can breathe and live.
Like lovelier things, deluded flower,
Thy date is short; the very hour
That sees thee flourish, sees thee fade;
Thy blush, thy being, all a shade.
Yet, flower, I'll lay thee on a shrine,
That makes thy very death divine.

Couch'd on a bed of living snows,
Then breathe thy last, too happy rose!
Sweet Queen, thou'lt die upon a throne,
Where even thy sweetness is outdone;
Young weeper, thou shalt close thine eyes
Beside the gates of Paradise.
On my Idalia's bosom, thou,
Beneath the lustres of her brow,
Like pilgrims, all their sorrows past,
On Heaven their dying glances cast,
Thy crimson beauty shalt recline,
Oh, that thy rapturous fate were mine!