 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
293
A FAIR PLACE AND PLEASANT.
A Fair place and pleasant, this same world of ours!
Who says there are serpents 'mongst all the sweet flowers?
Who says every blossom we pluck has its thorn?
Pho! pho! laugh those musty old sayings to scorn.
Who says there are serpents 'mongst all the sweet flowers?
Who says every blossom we pluck has its thorn?
Pho! pho! laugh those musty old sayings to scorn.
If you roam to the tropics for flowers rich and rare,
No doubt there are serpents, and deadly ones, there;
If none but the rose will content ye, 'tis true
You may get sundry scratches, and ugly ones too.
No doubt there are serpents, and deadly ones, there;
If none but the rose will content ye, 'tis true
You may get sundry scratches, and ugly ones too.
But prythee look there—Could a serpent find room
In that close-woven moss, where those violets bloom?
And reach me that woodbine—you'll get it with ease—
Now, wiseacre! where are the thorns, if you please?
In that close-woven moss, where those violets bloom?
And reach me that woodbine—you'll get it with ease—
Now, wiseacre! where are the thorns, if you please?
I say there are angels in every spot,
Though our dim earthly vision discerneth them not;
That they're guardians assigned to the least of us all,
By Him who takes note if a sparrow but fall;
Though our dim earthly vision discerneth them not;
That they're guardians assigned to the least of us all,
By Him who takes note if a sparrow but fall;
That they're aye flitting near us, around us, above,
On missions of kindness, compassion, and love;
That they're glad when we're happy, disturbed at our tears,
Distressed at our weaknesses, failings, and fears;
On missions of kindness, compassion, and love;
That they're glad when we're happy, disturbed at our tears,
Distressed at our weaknesses, failings, and fears;
That they care for the least of our innocent joys,
Though we're cozened like children with trifles and toys,
And can lead us to bloom-beds, and lovely ones too,
Where snake never harboured, and thorn never grew.
Though we're cozened like children with trifles and toys,
And can lead us to bloom-beds, and lovely ones too,
Where snake never harboured, and thorn never grew.
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |