The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill

One morning, in a Prince's park,
Before the rising of the lark
Or the first glimmering twilight beam,
A Lily blossomed by a stream;
Just at the chillest, darkest hour,
When frowning clouds in heaven lower,
When shadows crouch all gaunt and grim,
And every little star is dim.

“O dreary world!” the Lily sighed:
Only the dreary wind replied.

Soon, in the East uprising slow,
A cold gray dawn began to grow.
The Lily watched where all around
The mist came creeping o'er the ground,
And listened, while with sadder tone
The morning-wind began to moan:
But all the more the light drew on,
Her tear-dewed cheek was deathlier wan,—
Each streak of daylight, as it grew,
Revealed a world so strange and new.
Slowly the dawn crept up the sky
Like a cold, cruel, watching eye.

Once from some little wakened bird
A twittering note of joy she heard:
The chill dew fell upon her head—
She almost wished that she were dead;
“There comes no joy for me,” she said.

A gnarled and wisdom-wrinkled Oak
Which overheard, in answer spoke:

“O foolish little Lilybell,
Why do you weep, when all is well?
Look up! Have faith! For by and by
The sun is coming up the sky;
All golden red the heavens will glow,
All golden green the earth below;
The birds their rippling songs will sing,
And wooing winds their spices bring:
And then the Prince will hither come
To wander 'mid his flowers, and some
(Ah, favored blossoms!), bending down,
He plucks and places in his crown.
Look up, O foolish Lilybell!
A little while, and all is well.”

The Lily drooped and trembled still:
“The dawn,” she sobbed, “is dim and chill;
And if the Prince should come, alas!
He will not stoop among the grass;
I surely cannot please his eyes,
For I am neither fair nor wise:
He'll choose some tall and stately tree,
He surely will not care for me!”

But now the sunrise was at hand,
Lighting with splendor all the land;
As if a seraph stood below
With lifted pinions all aglow,
Whose tips of fire still nearer came
In feathery plumes of floating flame;
While from his hidden face the rays
Shot up and set the heavens ablaze.
They warmed the old Oak's wrinkled face,
And touched it with a mellow grace;
Then dancing downward to his feet
They kissed the Lily's face so sweet,
And laughed away her foolish fear
And lit a gem in every tear;
Then flew to greet the Master's eye,
Who even now was drawing nigh.

He saw the Lily's fragile cup
With dew and sunlight brimming up,
And, as he marked each beauty well,
The petals pure as pearliest shell,
And on the lowly bending stem
The tear-drop sparkling like a gem,
The Prince was glad, and stooping down
Plucked it, and set it in his crown;
And 'mid the jewels glittering there
None shone so royally and rare,
For none was half so pure and fair.

Dear child, 't is our ingratitude,
And faithless fear, and sullen mood,

Darken a world so bright and good!
There 's nothing beautiful and true—
There 's not a rift of heaven's blue,
And not a flower, or dancing leaf,
But shames our selfish-hearted grief.
His hand that feels the sparrow's fall,
And builds the bee his castle-wall,
And spreads the tiniest insect's sail,
And tints the violet's purple veil,
Will never let His children stray
Or wander from His arms away.
To-day may seem all cold and dim—
Trust the To-morrow unto Him.

'T is slander that we often hear,
“Hope whispers falsehoods in our ear,”—
There 's no such lying voice as Fear.
Hope is a prophet sent from Heaven,
Fear is a false and croaking raven.
The dawn that buds all gray and cold
Will blossom to a sky of gold;
God's love shall like a sunrise stay
To lighten all the future way—
Still brighter to the Perfect Day.

University of Virginia Library

A FABLE

TO CHILD ANNA