 | The bard, and minor poems |  |
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LINES TO A SNOW-DROP.
Pure as its snow-wreath is the flower
That rises gently on the gale;
And meekly fair within thy bower,
Like maid that lists her lover's tale.
That rises gently on the gale;
And meekly fair within thy bower,
Like maid that lists her lover's tale.
And slender is thy virgin stem,
And ghost-like wan thy silver bell:
Of earliest Spring thou art the gem—
Of Winter's grave, the funeral knell.
And ghost-like wan thy silver bell:
Of earliest Spring thou art the gem—
Of Winter's grave, the funeral knell.
Oh, lovely is thy crescent green,
And lovely is thy cup of gold;
They dwell about thy heart serene,
Like dreams of youth ere life is old.
And lovely is thy cup of gold;
They dwell about thy heart serene,
Like dreams of youth ere life is old.
Hail! harbinger of coming days—
Of summer and its sunny hours!
The birds shall greet thee with their lays,
And bless thee in their summer bowers.
Of summer and its sunny hours!
The birds shall greet thee with their lays,
And bless thee in their summer bowers.
For, as the rainbow spake of peace,
Where Noah and his children stood;
So at thy smile shall Winter cease,
And gladness spread o'er field and wood.
Where Noah and his children stood;
So at thy smile shall Winter cease,
And gladness spread o'er field and wood.
The biting storms, the tempests drear,
No more shall rage o'er hill and plain;
'Tis past!—thy welcome tells us here
That Spring renews her ancient reign!
No more shall rage o'er hill and plain;
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That Spring renews her ancient reign!
Rejoice!—no more the weary snow
Shall heap its pall on grass and flower;
The gales of Spring already blow
In triumph o'er each woodland bower.
Shall heap its pall on grass and flower;
The gales of Spring already blow
In triumph o'er each woodland bower.
| The bard, and minor poems | |