Last gentian of the withering year! Left for Augusta's hand, Thou shalt not linger shivering here Until thy blue eye turn to gray, And from thy lids the lashes fall away. I will not leave thee, loving thee so well, To face the ruin of November's air; But thou shalt go where Summer still doth dwell, Soft light and bird-song,—all things bright or fair,— And happy thoughts and wise thoughts fed with books, And gentle speech, and loving looks From eyes that still make sunshine everywhere. For know, thou trembling stem, that not alone My lady bears the summer in her name; Her heart is of that season; and her tone When she shall greet thee,-guessing whence it came,-And the sweet welcome of her smile Thy simple soul shall so beguile, That hadst thou lips as lids, those lips would say The day I found thee was thy sunniest day. GUIDO'S AURORA. NORTH from the arms of her beloved now, FOR Whitening the Orient steep, the Concubine Of old Tithonus comes, her lucent brow Glistening with gems, her fair hands filled with flowers, While from her girdle pours a wealth of pearls That cuts the laughing billow's crested curls. With much to do;-and they must move apace: And thou be lagging? Brighten up thy face! Hurry, dull God! Hyperion, to thy race! Light the dark woods, the dew-drenched mountain scorch! Phœbus, Aurora calls, why linger so? ON A BUST OF DANTE. The earliest version of this poem was contributed, over the signature “ P. P. P.," to the Boston "Advertiser and Patriot," 7 October, 1841. In 1843 the author revised it,— inserting the present fourth stanza,—and published it anew with his translation of "The First Ten Cantos of the Inferno." The following text is from the poet's manu script of 1888 and in accordance with his final revision.] EE, from this counterfeit of him SEE Whom Arno shall remember long, The father was of Tuscan song: Faithful if this wan image be, A lover in that anchorite? To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight Who could have guessed the visions came The lips as Cuma's cavern close, The rigid front, almost morose, But for the patient hope within, Declare a life whose course hath been |