The lingering perfume of thy flower,
Its dying fragrance, sadly sweet,
Though faint to that of summer’s bower,
It still is soothing thus to greet.
The gusty winds, the dark’ning cloud,
The chilly mists, and rain, and dews,
And drifted leaves which half enshroud
Thy beauties,—all delight my Muse,
And boast a charm which far outvies
The grace of summer’s proudest day,
When varied blooms of richer dyes
Unfolded to the sun’s warm ray.
To me thy yet surviving bloom
And ling’ring sweetness can recall
Hearts which, unchill’d by gath’ring gloom,
Can meekly live and love—through all.
From such, in seasons dark and drear,
Immortal hopes, of noblest worth,
Feelings and thoughts, to virtue dear,
Gush like thy dying fragrance forth,
And fling a holier charm around
Than prosp’rous hours could ever know;
For rapture’s smile less fair is found
Than that which Patience lends to Woe!