_For the Table Book._
Lovely but fearful,
Thy stem clings round a stronger power,
Like a fond child that trusts and grows
More beautiful in feeling’s hour.
Rich is thy blossom,
Shaped like a turban, with a spire
Of orange in a purple crest,
And humid eye of sunny fire.
When the day wakens,
Thou hearest not the happy airs
Breathed into zephyr’s faery dreams,
By insects’ wings, like leaves, in pairs.
Summer--when over--
Quits thee, with clust’ring berries red.
Hanging like grapes, and autumn’s cold
Chills what the noon-day’s sunbeams fed.
Thou art like beauty,
Gentle to touch and quickly faded;
’Tis death to taste thee void of skill,
And thou, like death, art nightly shaded.
*, *, P.
_Sept. 1827._
[Illustration: ~The Velocitas~,