The Project Gutenberg eBook,
The Snow-Drop, by Sarah S. Mower
E-text prepared by Amy Petri and Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders
from images provided by Internet Archive Children's Library
and University of Florida
THE SNOW-DROP
A HOLIDAY GIFT
BY MISS SARAH S. MOWER.
PREFACE.
The Authoress of "THE SNOW-DROP" has been misfortune's child. Disease
laid its relentless hand upon her in early childhood. It deprived her of
a common school education and the world's sweet intercourse. Such has
been its nature, that, except on one occasion, she has not been able to
leave home for more than six years.
"THE SNOW-DROP" would never have appeared had not life's wintry hour
given it birth! It was written to beguile tedious time. Winds, as they
played through groves that surround her aged father's retired and humble
dwelling, sweet songsters, as they caroled from spray to spray, and the
ripple of the Androscoggin, as it glided past, to her ear, were nature's
sweet minstrels, that cheered her heart in solitude and inspired her,
too, to attempt the artless strains of nature.
This little work, at the suggestion of her friends, is presented and
dedicated to the benevolent public, humbly hoping and trusting that it
may give pastime to the leisure hour, impress more fully moral and
religious sentiment, and afford some little return for the thought she
has bestowed upon it.
THE SNOW-DROP[1]
Sweet little unassuming flower,
It stays not for an April shower,
But dares to rear its tiny head,
While threat'ning clouds the skies o'erspread.
It ne'er displays the vain desire
To dress in flaunting gay attire;
No purple, scarlet, blue, or gold,
Deck its fair leaves when they unfold.
Born on a cold and wintry night,
Its flowing robes were snowy white;
No vernal zephyrs fan its form—
It often battles with the storm.
It never drank mild summer's dew,
But chilling winds around it blew;
And hoary frost his mantle spread
Upon the little snow-drop's bed.
I love this modest little flower;—
It comes in desolation's hour
The barren landscape's face to cheer,
When none beside it dares appear.
Just like the friend, whose brightest smile
Is spared, our sorrows to beguile;
Who like some angel from the sky,
When needed most, is ever nigh—
To pluck vile slander's envious dart
From out the wounded, bleeding heart,
And raise from earth the drooping head
When all our summer friends are fled.
And shall these humble pages dare
Presume to ask, if they compare
With that fair, fragrant, precious gem,
Plucked from cold winter's diadem?
'Tis true both struggled into life,
Through scenes of sorrow, care and strife;
This poor, frail, intellectual flower
Was reared in no elysian bower.
No ray of fortune on it shone,—
It forced its weary way alone;
Up-springing from the barren sod,
Untilled, save by affliction's rod.
FOOTNOTES:
A white, fragrant flower, the earliest
that appears.—Language.—"I am not a summer friend."
MY BIRTH PLACE
Where "old Blue" mountain's healthful breeze
Swept o'er the green hill-side,
My little fragile bark was launched
On life's uncertain tide.
There verdant fields and murm'ring brooks
Invited me to roam;
Old towering trees their heads upreared
Around my quiet home.
When morn unveiled her blushing face,
The sun came peeping in;
His quiv'ring beams upon the wall,
Checked by the leafy screen.
Oft in some sweet sequestered dell,
The blushing flow'ret smiled;
And threw around a pleasing spell,
For me, an artless child.
The fragrant blossom peeping up,
From out the mossy sod,
Caused my young thoughts from earth to rise
And soar to nature's God.
In summer, when I wandered forth,
Beneath the deep green shade,
Or when mild autumn walked the rounds,
In gorgeous robes arrayed—
Music, in nature's softest strains,
Stole through my little breast;—
'Twas something I could not define,
Nor could it be expressed.
While some admire the pompous pile,
Or glitt'ring, costly dome,
I'd gaze upon those ancient trees,
Round that sweet rural home.
THE OAK AND THE RILL:
OR, INDOLENT WEALTH AND HONEST LABOR.
COMPOSED FOR THE FRANKLIN AGRICULTURAL SOCIETY.
To find employment for my pen,
I wandered from the haunts of men,
And sought a little rising ground,
With lofty oaks and elm trees crowned,
Where I might court the friendly muse,
Who ever thinks herself abused
When woo'd 'midst tumult, noise and strife,
And all the busy cares of life.
With senses quite absorbed in thought,
While all beside seemed half forgot,
I wandered on till I had strayed
Beneath an oak tree's ample shade,
Whose lofty top towered up so high,
It seemed aspiring for the sky.
Just at the basement of the hill,
A modest little purling rill
Shone like a mirror in the sun,—
Flashing and sparkling as it run.
The lofty oak scarce deigned to look
Upon the little murm'ring brook,
But tossed his head in proud disdain,
And thus began his boasting strain:—
"I've lived almost since time began,
The friend and favorite of man;
Since I became a stately tree,
Cradled within my branches, lay
The young pappoose, who gayly smiled,
And listened to the music wild
That floated round his tiny head,
While through my top the breezes played.
In after years to me he came,
When wearied in pursuit of game;
He from my branches plucked his bow,
To slay the deer and buffalo;
Here, with his friends, he'd often meet
To sing the war-song, dance, and eat.
'Twas here he woo'd the dark-eyed maid,
And built his wigwam in my shade;
To me he brought his youthful bride,
And dwelt here till with age he died.
His children thought no place more meet
To make his grave than at my feet;
They said 'twould greatly soothe their woes
If I would let him here repose;
