The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival With a biographical sketch |
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THE FRENCHMAN'S DARLING.
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The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival | ||
155
THE FRENCHMAN'S DARLING.
The rose may sparkle in the morn,
And blush and brighten on its thorn;
The gaudy tulip proudly spread
Its glories o'er the enamelled bed;
The iris imitate the bow,
That sunbeams on a tempest throw;
All these may shine around,—but yet
I love my darling mignonette.
And blush and brighten on its thorn;
The gaudy tulip proudly spread
Its glories o'er the enamelled bed;
The iris imitate the bow,
That sunbeams on a tempest throw;
All these may shine around,—but yet
I love my darling mignonette.
I ask no deep-encrimsoned flower
From India's never-fading bower;
No lotus, where it closely weaves
The Ganges with its azure leaves;
I ask no pensive bud of woe,
That gives the night its wreath of snow;
All these may have a charm,—but yet
Thy charm is more, sweet mignonette.
From India's never-fading bower;
No lotus, where it closely weaves
The Ganges with its azure leaves;
I ask no pensive bud of woe,
That gives the night its wreath of snow;
All these may have a charm,—but yet
Thy charm is more, sweet mignonette.
No lily,
that with gold-specked urn
Seems like a chandelier to burn,
Where wide Savanna's waters flow
Beneath a forest bower of snow;
No palm with bending tufts of fire,
No spiced vanilla, I desire;
These you may fondly twine,—but yet
I fondlier twine my mignonette.
Seems like a chandelier to burn,
Where wide Savanna's waters flow
Beneath a forest bower of snow;
No palm with bending tufts of fire,
No spiced vanilla, I desire;
These you may fondly twine,—but yet
I fondlier twine my mignonette.
The Scot may love his thistle-down,
Its prickly leaves, and purple crown;
And Erin on her shamrock smile,
The beauty of her emerald isle;
The holly twine its glossy braid,
A starry wreath for Albion's head:
We love the modest violette,
And dearer still the mignonette
Its prickly leaves, and purple crown;
And Erin on her shamrock smile,
The beauty of her emerald isle;
156
A starry wreath for Albion's head:
We love the modest violette,
And dearer still the mignonette
The Poetical Works of James Gates Percival | ||