That gives forth its odour, To welcome the fall Of the dew-drop that sinks In the balmy thrall.
Enfolded in fragrance, Entranced it lies, Till the morning's dawn, When it lightly flies
From the balmy lips
Of the waking flower, Which droops through the day, When the dew-drop's away, And mourns the delay Of the evening hour.
O, how the sprite-struck Dew-drop stray'd 'Mong the wildest flow'rs Of the wild-wood glade!
Toying with all,
She was constant to none, Though she held her faith To the lordly sun.
She sought a new couch As the eve grew dim, But at morning she ever Returned to him.
The fond rose pined
In its hidden heart While the dew-drop play'd Her changeful part. And though it was kiss'd By some dew-drop bright, Griev'd that it was not The one of last night.
The leaf-shelter'd lily,
Pale "flow'r of the vale,"
The love-plaint felt
Of the nightingale;
Whose song never bore So much meaning as now :- O, sympathy-subtile In teaching art thou.
The violet (heart-like), The sweeter for grief, Sigh'd forth its balm In its own relief;
While its jealous companions Conceiv'd it blest, And envied the pang Of an aching breast.
Thus, eve after eve,
Did the dew-drop betray Some leaflet that smiled On the pendant spray;
And blossoms that sprang From a healthful root, Faded in grief,
And produced no fruit. But what cared she? Who was always caressed, As she sank in delight
On some fresh flower's breast. Though it died the next night, She could pass it, and say, "Poor thing 'twas my love Of yesterday."
At last, in her pride,
She so faithless got, She even forsook
The forget-me-not.
And Nature frown'd
On the bright coquette, And sternly said—
'I will teach thee yet A lesson so hard
Thou wilt not forget!"
THE roses of summer Are past and gone,
And sweet things are dying One by one;
But autumn is bringing In richer suits, To match with his sunsets His glowing fruits; And the flowers the dew-drop Deserted now,
For the richer caress
Of the clustering bough.
So dainty a dew-drop
A leaf would not suit, For her nothing less
Would suffice than the fruit. The bloom of the plum
And the nect'rine's perfume Were deserted, in turn,
A fresh love to assume; And as each she gave up, If her conscience did preach, Her ready excuse
Was the down of the peach.
But fruits will be gathered Ere autumn shall close; Then where in her pride May the dew-drop repose? Nor a bud, nor a flower,
Nor a leaf is there now; They are gone whom she slighted- There's nought but the bough. And the dew-drop would now Keep her mansion of air, With her bright lord the Sun, Nor, at evening, repair To the desolate earth;
Where no lovers remain But grasses so humble, And brambles so plain, So crooked, so knotty, So jagged and bare- Indeed would the dew Keep her mansion of air! But Nature looked dark, And her mandate gave, And the autumn dew Was her winter slave.
When the lordly Sun Had his journey sped Far in the south,
Towards ocean's bed, And short was the time That he held the sky, His oriflamb waving Nor long nor high, And the dew-drop lay In dark cold hours, Embraced by the weeds That survived the flowers. Oh! chill was her tear,
As she thought of the night She had wept in pure joy At her rose's delight; While now for the morning
She sigh'd;-that its ray Should bear her from loathsome Embraces away.
Like a laggard it came;
And so briefly it shone, She scarce reach'd the sky Ere her bright lord was gone;
And the fern in the wood, And the rush by the stream, Were sparkling with gems In the morning beam.
So charm'd was the stream
With the beauty around, That it stopp'd in its course, And it utter'd no sound;
In the silent entrancement Of Winter's embrace, It sought not to wander From that charmed place; For better it loved
With old Winter to be, In the diamond-hung woods, Than be lost in the sea. But the dew-drop's home Was in yon bright sky, Aud when in the sunbeam She sought to fly, Chain'd to a weed
Was the bright frail thing, And she might not mount On her morning wing. "Ha! ha!" laugh'd Nature, "I've caught thee now; Bride of old Winter, Bright thing, art thou!
"Think of how many A flower for thee Hath wasted its heart
In despondency.
"Now where thou 'rt fetter'd
Thou must remain; Let thy pride rejoice In so bright a chain." "True," said the dew-drop, "Is all thou'st told, My fetters are brightBut ah, so cold!
"Rather than sparkle
In diamond chain,
I'd dwell with the humblest Flower again;
"And never would rove From a constant bliss, If I might 'scape
From a fate like this; "In glittering misery Bid me not sleep! Mother, oh, let me Melt and weep!
"Weep in the breast
Of my chosen flower, And for ever renounce My changeful hour; "For though to the skies I shall daily spring, At the sunrise bright, On my rainbow wing, "To my flower I'll return At golden even, With a love refresh'd
At the fount of heaven!"
The Spirit of Spring Was listening near; The captive dew-drop
She came to cheer!
Her fetter she broke,
And the chosen flower Was given to the dew-drop In happy hour.
And true to her faith,
Did the dew-drop come, When the honey-bee, With his evening hum,
Was bidding farewell
To the rose, which he taught, By his fondness, to know
"Twas with sweetness fraught. And the rose thought the bee Was a silly thing To fly from the dew
With his heavy wing;
For "Ah," sighed the rose, As it hung on the bough, "Bright dew-drop, there's nothing So sweet as thou!"
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