 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
LINES.
Come to the vintage feast!
The west wind sighs 'mid the stately flowers
That deck so brightly our garden bowers,
Flowers which awoke as the summer died,
To rival her many-colored pride,
Flowers whose rich tint and gorgeous dye
An eastern monarch's pomp outvie.
The west wind sighs 'mid the stately flowers
That deck so brightly our garden bowers,
Flowers which awoke as the summer died,
To rival her many-colored pride,
Flowers whose rich tint and gorgeous dye
An eastern monarch's pomp outvie.
Come to the vintage feast!
The sun shines out, but a soft mist lies
Like a gossamer veil o'er the autumn skies,
The air has stolen its sweet perfume
From the crimson clover's rich beds of bloom,
And the insect hum is as musical still
As if summer yet ruled over valley and hill.
The sun shines out, but a soft mist lies
Like a gossamer veil o'er the autumn skies,
The air has stolen its sweet perfume
From the crimson clover's rich beds of bloom,
And the insect hum is as musical still
As if summer yet ruled over valley and hill.
Come to the vintage feast!
The vine bends down with its purple fruit,
The foliage lies thick round its gnarled root,
For the leaves are dropping as if to show
The purple clusters that lie below,
And the tendrils close round the lattice twine,
As if asking support for the burdened vine.
The vine bends down with its purple fruit,
The foliage lies thick round its gnarled root,
For the leaves are dropping as if to show
The purple clusters that lie below,
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As if asking support for the burdened vine.
Come to the vintage feast!
In Hebe's temple is spread the board
With the golden treasures of autumn stored;
The sun of our native skies has shed
O'er the ripened fruitage its glowing red;
But the grapes that grow 'neath a warmer heaven
The sparkling wine to our feast has given;
Then come and awaken the choral hymn,
While the bead-drop foams on the beaker's brim.
In Hebe's temple is spread the board
With the golden treasures of autumn stored;
The sun of our native skies has shed
O'er the ripened fruitage its glowing red;
But the grapes that grow 'neath a warmer heaven
The sparkling wine to our feast has given;
Then come and awaken the choral hymn,
While the bead-drop foams on the beaker's brim.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |