The snowdrop,
Winter's timid child,
Awakes to life, bedew'd with tears;
And flings around its fragrance mild,
And where no rival flow'rets bloom,
Amid the bare and chilling gloom,
A beauteous gem appears!
All weak and wan, with head inclined,
Its parent breast the drifted snow;
It trembles while the ruthless
Bends its slim form; the tempest lours,
Its emerald eye drops crystal
On its cold bed below.
Poor flower! on thee the sunny beam,
No touch of genial warmth bestows;
Except to thaw the icy stream,
Whose little current purls
Thy fair and glossy charms among,
And whelms thee as it flows.
The night-breeze tears thy silky dress,
Which deck'd, with silvery lustre shone;
The morn returns, not thee to bless,
The gaudy crocus flaunts its pride,
And triumphs where its rival died,
Unshelter'd and unknown!
No sunny beam shall gild thy grave,
No bird of pity thee deplore;
There shall no spreading branches wave;
For Spring shall all her gems unfold,
And revel 'mid her buds of gold,
When thou art seen no more!
Where'er I find thee, gentle flower,
Thou still art sweet and dear to me;
For I have known the cheerless hour,
Have seen the sunbeams cold and pale,
Have felt the chilling wintry gale,
And wept and shrunk like thee!
