The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival With a biographical sketch |
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TO THE GENTIANA CRINITA,
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 | The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival |  |
TO THE GENTIANA CRINITA,
THE LAST FLOWER OF AUTUMN.
Sweet floweret of the waning year,
Last blossom of the fading plains,
The leaves are falling wan and sere,
And the lone, widowed bird complains:
Last blossom of the fading plains,
The leaves are falling wan and sere,
And the lone, widowed bird complains:
Still thou art dearer to my heart,
Than all the sweets the Spring unveils;
Thy blooms a softer mood impart,
Than violets breathing in the vales.
Than all the sweets the Spring unveils;
Thy blooms a softer mood impart,
Than violets breathing in the vales.
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There is a melancholy grace,
That spreads thy lonely petals o'er;
They tell that winter comes apace,
That soon will rise the tempest's roar.
That spreads thy lonely petals o'er;
They tell that winter comes apace,
That soon will rise the tempest's roar.
The flowers decay, the fields are bare,
The humble violet fears to blow,
The woods no more their honors wear,
Light rustling fall the leaves below.
The humble violet fears to blow,
The woods no more their honors wear,
Light rustling fall the leaves below.
Still thou unfold'st thy lovely leaf,
And smil'st amid the fields alone,
Thou seem'st some weeping child of grief,
That mourns her every comfort flown,
And smil'st amid the fields alone,
Thou seem'st some weeping child of grief,
That mourns her every comfort flown,
Had I not roved the desert plain,
Where 'neath the hedge you sweetly blew,
Your petals had been spread in vain,
Your only guest the evening dew.
Where 'neath the hedge you sweetly blew,
Your petals had been spread in vain,
Your only guest the evening dew.
Or when amid the leafless wood
The blue-bird chirped with drooping wing,
He might have o'er thy beauty stood,
And sung his lay, and thought it Spring.
The blue-bird chirped with drooping wing,
He might have o'er thy beauty stood,
And sung his lay, and thought it Spring.
How richly purple is thy hue,
Thy fringe like beauty's ebon rays,
Where the eye's lustre glances through,
And meeker shines its living blaze.
Thy fringe like beauty's ebon rays,
Where the eye's lustre glances through,
And meeker shines its living blaze.
In vain the pencil would essay
To give thy form its native grace;
How weaker still the feeble lay,
That would thy mellow features trace!
To give thy form its native grace;
How weaker still the feeble lay,
That would thy mellow features trace!
Where'er I meet thee on the plains,
Thy beauties to my soul how dear!
How worthy thou of higher strains,
Sweet floweret of the waning year!
Thy beauties to my soul how dear!
How worthy thou of higher strains,
Sweet floweret of the waning year!
| The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival | |