On a Dead Field-Flower

Torn by some careless hand From thy mother’s breast, Where gentle breezes fann’d Thy little leaves to rest, Here dost thou lie, forsaken, No more shalt thou awaken, To gladden with thy beauty the wanderer opprest!

No more at early morn, When the lark’s gay song, Through grove and meadow borne, Calls his merry mates along, Shall thy tiny arms, outspreading, Their grateful odour shedding, Give silent, speaking welcome to Nature’s joyous throng!

Peaceful and calm thy sleep! Thy life’s race run, Thou hadst no cause to weep, No duty left undone! Sweet little withered blossom, How many a blighted bosom Would fain repose as softly beneath a summer’s sun!

How many a child of care, Won by thy power, Might raise his voice in prayer, Taught by thee, little flower! Ah! surely thou wast given, A gracious boon from heaven, To throw its charm on sinful earth for one short blissful hour!

Farewell! I may not stay; Thy frail, drooping form Heeds not the sun’s fierce ray, Nor winter’s frowning storm! Like thee, kind hearts have perish’d By those that should have cherish’d, And held the shield of friendship to shelter them from harm.

Like thee, I soon must fade, And ’neath the sky Lifeless and cold be laid! But though I claim no sigh, Though no fond heart may miss me When death’s pale lips shall kiss me, If my short life be pure as thine, I need not fear to die.