Hope, we ’re not ashamed, with thee
Showered by drops from Calvary,
When thy branches shoot and bloom
Through a Saviour’s broken tomb.
Trees, whereof the pilgrim weaves
For his crown the mingled leaves,
Wreaths of you are rich and bright;
Earth ’s the shade, and heaven ’s the light.
[THE MUSHROOM’S SOLILOQUY.]
O what, and whence am I, ’mid damps and dust,
And darkness, into sudden being thrust?
What was I yesterday? and what will be,
Perchance, to-morrow, seen or heard of me?
Poor, lone, unfriended, ignorant, forlorn,
To bear the new, full glory of the morn,
Beneath the garden wall I stand aside,
With all before me, beauty, show, and pride.
Ah! why did nature shoot me up to light,
A thing unfit for use—unfit for sight;
Less like her work, than like a piece of art,
Whirled out and trimmed exact in every part?
Unlike the graceful shrub and flexile vine,
No fruit, nor branch, nor leaf, nor bud is mine.
No humming-bird, nor butterfly, nor bee
Will come to cheer, caress or flatter me.
No beauteous flower adorns my humble head,
No spicy odors on the air I shed;
But here I ’m stationed in my sober suit,
With only top and stem—I ’ve scarce a root.