274 TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN, 
Hear we a whisper low, 

From withering leaf and bell? 

“ Our life hath been a dream of love 
In garden or in dell! 
Yet wintry sleep we hail, 
And till the trump shall swell, 
That wakes us on the vernal morn, 
Sweet friends, a sweet farewell.” 


To the Fringed Gentian. 

Bryant, 
ie blossom bright with Autumn dew, 
And colored with the heayen’s own blue, 
That openest, when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night. 
Thou comest not when violets lean 

O’er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 
Or columbines, in purple drest 
Nod o’er the ground-bird’s hidden nest. 
Thou waitest late, and com’st alone, 
When woods are bare and birds are flown, 
And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged year is near his end. 

o> -_— owe —- at 

