O happy rose that bloometh upon her gentle breast!
Of all thy joyous hours, this is, in truth, the best!
Not sweeter is thy fragrance upon the balmy air
Than her pure spirit sheddeth, so blithe and debonnaire!
O happy rose that lieth upon that bosom white,
To thee kind Fate hath granted a goal of pure delight!
In vain I sigh and murmur, thy lot all envious view,
And seek in vain to stifle this moment's pungent rue!
O happy rose, as lying beneath her light caress,
Now whisper to her softly, what I may not confess,
And tell her she is fairer than bloom of earth, to-night,
In that her soul exhaleth all virtues pure and bright!