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.
[LINES - LONG ABSENT RELATIVE.]
[LINES - FRIEND IN AFFLICTION.]
[TO A SISTER WHILE DANGEROUSLY ILL.]
[TO A BUTTERFLY IN MY CHAMBER.]
[AN EPISTLE TO JERE, IN ANSWER TO HIS ODE.]
[NEIGHBORS' ADVICE TO INVALIDS.]
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;
Then begged that I would deign to wave
My verdant branches o'er his grave.
And since the polished white man came,
He's loved and honored me the same;
Though all the neighboring trees around
Were slain, as cumberers of the ground,
Yet here I tower in grandeur still,—
The pride and glory of the hill.
My dauntless spirits never quail
At earthquakes, hurricanes, or hail;
The rolling thunder's fiery car
Has never dared my form to mar;
I've heard its rumbling undismayed,
While forked lightnings round me played;
But O, thou little murm'ring brook,
How mean and meager is thy look;—
Babbling, babbling, all day long,—
How I detest thy simple song.
I would not have thee in my sight,
Did not all nobles claim a right
To keep some menial servant near,
And therefore 'tis that thou art here.
As I am always very neat.
I'll deign to let thee wash my feet;—
Such work becomes one in thy place,—
To drudge for me is no disgrace."
The spirit of the brook was stirred,
But still her voice had not been heard,
Had not a zephyr, ling'ring round,
In friendly mood, caught up the sound,
And flying round the monarch's head,
Breathed in his ear the words she said.
The streamlet, with a deep drawn sigh,
In silv'ry tones, made this reply:
"Illustrious oak, pray deign to hear,
'Twill not disgrace thee—none are near,
And I this once a word would say,
As I am wending on my way;—
Behold that path wind through the grass,
Where many by thee daily pass;
See, where it ends, just on my brink,
Then frankly tell what thou dost think.
Both man and beast, when they are dry,
Come here and find a rich supply;
And many come for pleasure too,
When they have nothing else to do.
Bright pebbles in my waters lie,
Which have a charm in childhood's eye;
And little children stray from home,
Upon my sunny shores to roam;—
With me they play their artless pranks,
And gather flowers along my banks;—
Sweet flowers that shun thy gloomy shade,
And hither come to ask my aid.
The poet loves my 'simple song';—
With me he often tarries long;
He tells me that he wanders here,
To catch some new and bright idea,
Which makes his tuneful numbers roll,
In music that enchants the soul.
And people too of every class,
Come here their leisure hours to pass;
I often feel the warm embrace
Of ruby lips upon my face,
For those who never bend the knee
To haughty monarchs, just like thee,
Will fall down prostrate at my side.
And kiss the face thou dost deride.
Thou sayest, thou art very neat,
And I, the slave to wash thy feet!
Should all the streamlets cease to flow,
Not one on earth could e'er be so.
Our strength propels the busy mills,
And all the land with plenty fills,—
They bring, some silver—others gold—
And shield the poor from winter's cold.
The vapors, which from us ascend,
To vegetation are a friend;—
In dew they soon descend again,
Or fall in fruitful showers of rain.
Were there no brooks, there'd be no bread—
Then tell me, how could man be fed?
No man, nor beast, or plant, or flower,
Without us could survive an hour;—
The feathered songsters of the grove.
Would cease to chant their notes of love.
Earth would become a scene of gloom—
One vast extended direful tomb.—
And I must tell thee, ere I go,
That thy proud head would soon lie low,—
Thou 'dst fade and wither, droop and die,
And in the dust neglected lie.
Yet still no praise belongs to me—
I do not sympathize with thee;
I never can be proud and vain,
And imitate thy boasting strain;
But humbly on my way I'll plod,
For I receive my strength from God."