Then he having communicated the glad tidings to the other birds, they also came to greet me, cheering my loneliness with their sweet songs. Yet still I pined to return to earth again; I cared not to look upward, but hung my head, murmuring sadly,—
'Oh, Mother Earth, take home thy child! she is so weary of her life here.'
Was I wrong? Perhaps so, but I owed my existence to that which mortals deem so cold and dark; I loved it with the affection of a loving child, and longed to rest again upon the dear bosom that had sheltered me when I was but a frail bulb.
Besides, it seemed to me that I was doing no good. Why was I sent here, if only to bloom and then die? I had been told that nothing was created in vain; was I doing the work for which I had been sent upon the earth?
Whilst thus repining over my useless life, a poet passed by chance—stay, was it chance? nay, there is no chance! He was one who as yet had met with but little success; I am told there are many such among earth's children. We know that it is said:
'Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air;'
yet the sweetness is not lost, for it speaks with a perfumed voice to the creatures of the air; but among mortals, many fade away into utter oblivion, breathing only their sad, sweet heart-songs to the listening winds around.
And this poet of whom I speak, he felt within himself the inspiration of genius, that innate love of the beautiful and true which comes from God alone; but the world looked coldly on him, and he was struggling with what seemed endless disappointments, battling with them bravely, yet almost sinking amidst the strife. His very heart was beginning to fail him, his noble courage to give way, when he saw me there, blossoming alone in that quiet nook.
'Oh, God!' he cried, as, with clasped hands and eyes raised heavenward, he sank beside me on the sod,—'oh, God, forgive me that I should dare to doubt Thy loving care, when this fragile, fragile flower, sheltered by Thee, has braved the wintry storms, while the cold winds pass tenderly over its bowed head. A bruised reed Thou wilt not break; Thou carest for the lilies of the field,—why then should I fear when adversity assails me? Art Thou not still above, though heaven seems so far off, and oh, so cold and pitiless! I will have faith in Thy divine and fatherly love, and accept the lesson this sweet flower hath taught me.'