Addressed to Catherine B………R.
WHENCE, on a day so darkly dull,
Fair fragile form, art thou?
Whoe'er so frail a thing could cull
To deck chill Winter's brow?
In slender robe of green thin clad,
Thou bendest o'er thine earth,
Like some meek spirit humbly glad,
Though lonely from her birth.
Oh! dearly prized of all the year,
Glad tidings thou dost bring;
The knell thou art of winter drear,
The matins of the spring!
Thou yet beholdest not the day,
Sweet flower, we fondly prize;
Thou passest on thy cheerless way
'Neath coldly sullen skies.
No place there seems for selfish thought
Within thy soft sad eye;
To us the welcome message brought,
Thou art content to die!
Oh! fraught within thy tiny sphere
With holy truths profound,
Meseems almost thy voice to hear,
As though thou speech hadst found.
“Who placed thy lot so frailly fair,
In hour so seeming stern,
Knew best that there, and only there,
Life's lesson thou couldst learn.
“Who laid thee on thy cheerless bed,
Can guide the storm aright,
Or bid the wind sweep overhead,
That else thy form would blight.
“Thus, whereso'er thy lot may be,
Be sure His choice it is;
And Peace will find her way to thee,
When all thy will is His.”