VIRTUE

Sweet day! so cool, so calm, so bright The bridal of the earth and sky; The dews shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die. Sweet rose! whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye; Thy root is ever in its grave; And thou must die. Sweet spring! full of sweet days and roses; A box where sweets compacted lie; Thy music shows ye have your closes; And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber never gives; But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives.