ON A LATE VIOLET.
Poor purple lingerer of the fading year, Whose leaves of withering blue Their dying sweetness drewFrom suns more genial, and from skies more clear; How tenderly and cold Thy blossoms now unfold,Their buds engemmed with winter's first cold tear; The wild autumnal storm Which whistles o'er thy form,Will in its ruthlessness exhaleThy slight "perfume upon the gale;"And thou still lower hang thine humble head. Then come, and on the tomb Of one whose short-lived bloomWas like thine own, thy parting sweetness shed; For she, like thee, when wintry storms appeared, Her modest head upreared,And in her gentleness defied the blast; Like thee, she faded slowly, day by day. Like thine, her early bloom exhaled away,When summer suns and the bright hours were past.