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277
GRACE INGERSOLL.
Where God placeth any creature,
Where he planteth any seed,
Each may find what best will answer
True development and need.
Where he planteth any seed,
Each may find what best will answer
True development and need.
There are blossoms on the mountains,
Braving even Alpine snow,
That would perish if transplanted
To the valleys down below.
Braving even Alpine snow,
That would perish if transplanted
To the valleys down below.
On our northern hills are roses,
Never fearing winter's breath,
That the kisses of the south-wind
Would but wither into death.
Never fearing winter's breath,
That the kisses of the south-wind
Would but wither into death.
True, the plant awhile may flourish,
Forced some foreign bower to grace,
But its root would strike down deeper
In its native soil and place.
Forced some foreign bower to grace,
But its root would strike down deeper
In its native soil and place.
278
Shut out from the earth's green places,
Is the wild bird's music best?
Does its voice not sound the sweetest
Singing nearest to its nest?
Is the wild bird's music best?
Does its voice not sound the sweetest
Singing nearest to its nest?
And thou wert like bird or blossom,
Daughter of a northern race—
Thou couldst neither sing nor florish,
Taken from thy native place.
Daughter of a northern race—
Thou couldst neither sing nor florish,
Taken from thy native place.
Going straight to woman's duties,
From thy childish joys and sports,
From the free air of the mountains,
To the atmosphere of courts,
From thy childish joys and sports,
From the free air of the mountains,
To the atmosphere of courts,
Can we marvel if the footstep,
Which trod lightly on the plain,
Should be hindered in its movement
By the drapery of the train?
Which trod lightly on the plain,
Should be hindered in its movement
By the drapery of the train?
Can we marvel, when we see her
Borne from home and friends away,
If her voice went out in silence,
And her beauty to decay?
Borne from home and friends away,
If her voice went out in silence,
And her beauty to decay?
No, we marvel not, yet mourn thee,
Lying in thy foreign tomb,
Fairest flower of all New England,
This should not have been thy doom!
Lying in thy foreign tomb,
Fairest flower of all New England,
This should not have been thy doom!
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