William Caldwell Roscoe (1823–1859)

WHAT care I tho’ beauty fading

Die ere Time can turn his glass?

What tho’ locks the Graces braiding

Perish like the summer grass?

Tho’ thy charms should all decay,

Think not my affections may!

For thy charms—tho’ bright as morning—

Captured not my idle heart;

Love so grounded ends in scorning,

Lacks the barb to hold the dart.

My devotion more secure

Woos thy spirit high and pure.