 | The girl's reading-book ; in prose and poetry |  |
208
GRATITUDE.
Little plant, of slender form,
Fair and shrinking from the storm,
Lift thou here thy fragrant head,
Bloom in this uncultur'd bed.
Fair and shrinking from the storm,
Lift thou here thy fragrant head,
Bloom in this uncultur'd bed.
Thou, of firmer spirit, too,
Stronger texture, deeper hue,
Dreading not the blasts that sweep,
Rise, and guard its infant sleep.
Stronger texture, deeper hue,
Dreading not the blasts that sweep,
Rise, and guard its infant sleep.
Fear ye not the awful shade
Where the bones of men are laid;
Short like yours their transient date,
Keen has been the scythe of fate.
Where the bones of men are laid;
Short like yours their transient date,
Keen has been the scythe of fate.
Forth, as plants in glory drest,
They came, upon the green earth's breast,
Sent forth their roots to reach the stream,
Their blossoms toward the rising beam,
They drank the morning's balmy breath,
And sank at eve, in withering death.
They came, upon the green earth's breast,
Sent forth their roots to reach the stream,
Their blossoms toward the rising beam,
They drank the morning's balmy breath,
And sank at eve, in withering death.
Rest here, meek plants, for few intrude
To trouble this deep solitude;
But should the giddy footstep tread
Upon the ashes of the dead,
Still let the hand of rashness spare
These tokens of affection's care,
Nor pluck the tender leaves that wave
In sweetness o'er this sainted grave.
To trouble this deep solitude;
But should the giddy footstep tread
Upon the ashes of the dead,
209
These tokens of affection's care,
Nor pluck the tender leaves that wave
In sweetness o'er this sainted grave.
White were the locks that thinly shed
Their snows around her honour'd head,
And furrows not to be effac'd,
Had age amid her features trac'd,
Before my earliest strength I tried
In infant gambols by her side;
But yet no grace or beauty rare
Were ever to my eye so fair.
Their snows around her honour'd head,
And furrows not to be effac'd,
Had age amid her features trac'd,
Before my earliest strength I tried
In infant gambols by her side;
But yet no grace or beauty rare
Were ever to my eye so fair.
Seven times the sun, with swift career,
Has mark'd the circle of the year,
Since first she press'd her lowly bier;
And seven times, sorrowing, have I come
Alone and wandering through the gloom,
To pour my lays upon her tomb:
And I have mourn'd, to see her bed
With brambles and with thorns o'erspread.
Has mark'd the circle of the year,
Since first she press'd her lowly bier;
And seven times, sorrowing, have I come
Alone and wandering through the gloom,
To pour my lays upon her tomb:
And I have mourn'd, to see her bed
With brambles and with thorns o'erspread.
Ah, surely, round her place of rest
I should not let the coarse weed twine,
Who so the couch of pain hath blest,
The path of penury freely drest,
And scatter'd such perfumes on mine:
It is not meet, that she should be
Forgotten or unblest by me
My plants, that in your hallow'd beds
Like strangers raise your trembling heads,
Drink the pure dew that evening sheds,
And meet the morning's earliest ray,
And catch the sunbeams when they play;—
And if your cups are fill'd with rain,
Shed back those drops in tears again;
Or if the gale that sweeps the heath,
Too roughly o'er your leaves should breathe,
Then sigh for her,—and when you bloom,
Scatter your fragrance o'er her tomb.
I should not let the coarse weed twine,
Who so the couch of pain hath blest,
The path of penury freely drest,
And scatter'd such perfumes on mine:
It is not meet, that she should be
Forgotten or unblest by me
210
Like strangers raise your trembling heads,
Drink the pure dew that evening sheds,
And meet the morning's earliest ray,
And catch the sunbeams when they play;—
And if your cups are fill'd with rain,
Shed back those drops in tears again;
Or if the gale that sweeps the heath,
Too roughly o'er your leaves should breathe,
Then sigh for her,—and when you bloom,
Scatter your fragrance o'er her tomb.
But should you, smit with terror, cast
Your unblown blossoms on the blast,
Or faint beneath the vertic heat,
Or fail when wintry tempests beat,
There is a plant of changeless bloom,
And it shall deck this honour'd tomb,
Not blanch'd with frost, or drown'd with rain,
Or by the breath of winter slain,—
But every morn its buds renew'd
Are by the tears of evening dew'd,—
This is the plant of gratitude.
Your unblown blossoms on the blast,
Or faint beneath the vertic heat,
Or fail when wintry tempests beat,
There is a plant of changeless bloom,
And it shall deck this honour'd tomb,
Not blanch'd with frost, or drown'd with rain,
Or by the breath of winter slain,—
But every morn its buds renew'd
Are by the tears of evening dew'd,—
This is the plant of gratitude.
| The girl's reading-book ; in prose and poetry | |