In a far distant clime I have left a sweet rose,
A blossom unfolding its exquisite ray,
More lovely than morning it timidly glows,
And fairer its blush than the rich bloom of May.

I fear that another, enamored, may view it,
May steal it away from its fond parent stem;
That, in absence, some fortunate lover may woo it,
And I sigh when I think of the beautiful gem.

To the shade where the flowret is destined to flourish,
On the wing of affection I'll hastily fly;
For what is there sweeter than fondly to nourish
What is dear to the heart, what is fair to the eye.

O leave not thy bower, sweet rose, till I come!
Hope whispers thy blooms I again shall survey;
My bosom, believe me, was formed for thy home;
O leave not thy bower, till it bears thee away.