Tell me, little trembling rose,
Thou whose sweet, coy crimson glows
Where Her lilies, chaste and pale,
Mutely tell their pensive tale,—
What your name, and whence you came?
Whence your rapture, or your shame?

Tell me, faint æolian, moan,
Thou whose plaintive monotone,
Like the widowed dove's at night,
Chides a cheerful chirp's delight,—
What your name, and whence your pain?
Why that trouble in your strain?

Tell me, brilliant, pure and clear,
Loth to leave thy purer sphere,—
Some dumb sorrow's darkened plight
Broke in eloquence and light,—
What thy name, thy pleading charm?
Who would do thee any harm?

Blush am I; but by and by,
If I live, they'll call me Sigh.
I'm a sigh; but if I grow,
Tear they'll name me, for my woe.

Call me Tear, dear, if I move
Thee to pity; if I prove
Wanton vanity above.
I was Blush once, I was Sigh;
I'll be Memory by and by.—
But our story's name is LOVE!