 | The Poetical Works of Eliza Cook |  |
THE LILY AND THE STREAM.
A lily-cup was growing where the streamlet tide was flowing,
And rich with grace and beauty there it bent;
And passed the whole day long in dancing to the song,
Which gurgling ripples murmured as they went.
Though rush and weed were there, the place was fresh and fair,
And wavelets kissed the Lily's tender leaf;
The Lily wooed the water, and drank the draught it brought her,
And never wore a tint of blighting grief.
And rich with grace and beauty there it bent;
And passed the whole day long in dancing to the song,
Which gurgling ripples murmured as they went.
Though rush and weed were there, the place was fresh and fair,
And wavelets kissed the Lily's tender leaf;
The Lily wooed the water, and drank the draught it brought her,
And never wore a tint of blighting grief.
A strong hand came and took the Lily from the brook,
And placed it in a painted vase of clay;
But, ah! it might not be, and sad it was to see
The suffering Lily fade and pine away.
The fountain-drops of wealth ne'er nursed it into health;
It never danced beneath the lighted dome;
But wofully it sighed for the streamlet's gushing tide,
And drooped in pain to miss its far-off home.
And placed it in a painted vase of clay;
But, ah! it might not be, and sad it was to see
The suffering Lily fade and pine away.
The fountain-drops of wealth ne'er nursed it into health;
It never danced beneath the lighted dome;
But wofully it sighed for the streamlet's gushing tide,
And drooped in pain to miss its far-off home.
Now human hearts be true, and tell me are not you
Too often taken, like the gentle flower;
And do ye never grieve, when Fortune bids ye leave
Affection's Life-stream for a gilded bower?
Oh! many a one can look far back on some sweet brook
That fed their soul-bloom, fresh, and pure, and shining;
And many a one will say, some painted vase of clay
Has held their spirit, like the Lily, pining.
Too often taken, like the gentle flower;
And do ye never grieve, when Fortune bids ye leave
Affection's Life-stream for a gilded bower?
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That fed their soul-bloom, fresh, and pure, and shining;
And many a one will say, some painted vase of clay
Has held their spirit, like the Lily, pining.
| The Poetical Works of Eliza Cook | |