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."