The poem
Ungrateful he, who pluck'd thee from thy stalk, Poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way; Inhal'd awhile thy odours on his walk, Then onward pass'd and left thee to decay. Ah! melancholy emblem! had I seen Thy modest beauties dew'd with Evening's gem, I had not rudely cropp'd thy parent stem, But left thee, blushing, 'mid the enliven'd green. And now I bend me o'er thy wither'd bloom, And drop the tear - as Fancy, at my side, Deep-sighing, points the fair frail Abra's tomb - 'Like thine, sad Flower, was that poor wanderer's pride! Oh! lost to Love and Truth, whose selfish joy Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy!'