'Tis now that damps begin to rise,
Or fall like tears from weeping skies;
Stay not, sweet friends, to wipe away
Those pearly drops of sorrowing day,
But let them seek the sacred cell
Of some fair lily's yellow bell,
Or hang upon the parched leaf
Like the soft drops of silent grief,
Nor with unhallow'd foot essay
To brush one precious pearl away;
For Health — who loves the meanest flower,
And sips the beverage of the shower —
All jealous for the rose's bloom,
And every herb that breathes perfume,
Knows their sweet odour to refuse
If robb'd of half their balmy dews.
Ah! rob them not, nor lingering stay
To take a farewell of the day;
But let Health lead you by the hand
Ere Night shall stretch her ebon wand,
Or Eve from her alembic pours
The precious essence of her flowers.