Classic Poem

Written in autumn

Native of Afric's arid lands,
Thou, and thy many-tinctur'd bands,
Unheeded and unvalued grew,
While Caffres crush'd beneath the sands
Thy pencill'd flowers of roseate hue.

But our cold northern sky beneath,
For thee attemper'd zephyrs breathe,
And art supplies the tepid dew,
That feeds, in many a glowing wreath,
Thy lovely flowers of roseate hue.

Thy race, that spring uncultur'd here,
Decline with the declining year,
While in successive beauty new,
Thine own light bouquets fresh appear,
And marbled leaves of cheerful hue.

Now buds and bells of every shade,
By Summer's ardent eye survey'd,
No more their gorgeous colours shew;
And even the lingering asters fade,
With drooping heads of purple hue.

But naturalized in foreign earth,
'Tis thine, with many a beauteous birth,
As if in gratitude they blew,
To hang, like blushing trophies forth,
Thy pencill'd flowers of roseate hue.

Oh then, amidst the wintry gloom,
Those flowers shall dress my cottage room,
Like friends in adverse fortune true;
And soothe me with their roseate bloom,
And downy leaves of vernal hue.