Classic Poem

This is the nursling of an hundred years.
Save this the horny cactus cannot bloom,
That heeds not if the violets shed perfume,
The roses blow, the August swell the ears
Of corn, or the dull wintry silence nears.
But ah! how shorn is all the garden-room
Of beauty! Flowers and shrubbery dropped in gloom,
The fountain lost in everlasting tears.
Thou, stranger, art too late — too late for home,
Tho' Time and Hope conspired to give thee life.
And shalt thou live, where thro' the sultry air
Death reigns and all malignant harms are rife?
Or shall thy trust not rather be a snare
To lure thy tardy beauty to its doom?