Stones from The Quarry or, Moods of Mind. By Henry Browne [i.e. Henry Ellison] |
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ON A VERY MILD FEBRUARY. |
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 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
ON A VERY MILD FEBRUARY.
Now comes the infant Spring, in tiny hand
(Chilled by old grandsire Winter's numbing hold)
Bearing pale crocus and the snowdrop cold;
As if her gentle touch, transmuting-bland,
Made snowflakes in their flower-likes expand!
With these she fills her lap, till, grown more bold,
In sport half, half to mock that bald-pate old,
She turn to May-blooms with her fairy-wand
His antiquated snows! Few are thy flowers,
Sweet Childhood o' the year! thy crocus not
“The Cloth o' gold” gilt by the sunny hours;
Pale Primrose peeping shy from some warm spot;
Rose-Christmas, which, sole bloom in icy bowers,
Link with sweet hopes sweet memories unforgot!
(Chilled by old grandsire Winter's numbing hold)
Bearing pale crocus and the snowdrop cold;
As if her gentle touch, transmuting-bland,
Made snowflakes in their flower-likes expand!
With these she fills her lap, till, grown more bold,
In sport half, half to mock that bald-pate old,
She turn to May-blooms with her fairy-wand
His antiquated snows! Few are thy flowers,
Sweet Childhood o' the year! thy crocus not
“The Cloth o' gold” gilt by the sunny hours;
Pale Primrose peeping shy from some warm spot;
Rose-Christmas, which, sole bloom in icy bowers,
Link with sweet hopes sweet memories unforgot!
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And yet, sweet Child, or ere thou lettest go
That old, welked, palsied hand, bethink thee well
And gently of him, and no harsh word tell;
“Frosty but kindly,” he hath led thee so
That thou may'st not too hasty-crescive grow;
Hath sung thee carols quaint, and tales that dwell
I' the heart, like chimes of dear old home-church-bell,
Whose under-tones with Cuckoo's notes blend low,
Like distance-sweetened music. Grudge then not
Some flowers (of his allowance too) to cheer
His exit, though they wither on the spot;
Thou wilt not miss them: so shall in thine ear
The Cuckoo's note be sweeter, and thy lot
More bless'd for these kind strewments on his bier!
That old, welked, palsied hand, bethink thee well
And gently of him, and no harsh word tell;
“Frosty but kindly,” he hath led thee so
That thou may'st not too hasty-crescive grow;
Hath sung thee carols quaint, and tales that dwell
I' the heart, like chimes of dear old home-church-bell,
Whose under-tones with Cuckoo's notes blend low,
Like distance-sweetened music. Grudge then not
Some flowers (of his allowance too) to cheer
His exit, though they wither on the spot;
Thou wilt not miss them: so shall in thine ear
The Cuckoo's note be sweeter, and thy lot
More bless'd for these kind strewments on his bier!
| Stones from The Quarry | |