ON A LATE VIOLET.
Poor purple lingerer of the fading year,
Whose leaves of withering blue
Their dying sweetness drew
From 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 exhale
Thy slight "perfume upon the gale;"
And thou still lower hang thine humble head.
Then come, and on the tomb
Of one whose short-lived bloom
Was 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.
Whose leaves of withering blue
Their dying sweetness drew
From 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 exhale
Thy slight "perfume upon the gale;"
And thou still lower hang thine humble head.
Then come, and on the tomb
Of one whose short-lived bloom
Was 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.