Poems — Ballad

A weedling wild, on lonely lea, My evening rambles chanc’d to see;

And much the weedling tempted me To crop its tender flower: Expos’d to wind and heavy rain, Its head bow’d lowly on the plain;

And silently it seem’d in pain Of life’s endanger’d hour.

“And wilt thou bid my bloom decay, And crop my flower, and me betray?

And cast my injur’d sweets away,”-- Its silence seemly sigh’d-- “A moment’s idol of thy mind?

And is a stranger so unkind, To leave a shameful root behind, Bereft of all its pride?

” And so it seemly did complain;

And beating fell the heavy rain;

And how it droop’d upon the plain, To fate resign’d to fall: My heart did melt at its decline, And “Come,” said I, “thou gem divine, My fate shall stand the storm with thine:” So took the root and all.