The Snow-Drop

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Title: The Snow-Drop
Author: Sarah S. Mower
Release Date: March 4, 2004 [eBook #11439]
Language: English
Character set encoding: US-ASCII
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
SNOW-DROP***
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THE SNOW-DROP
A Holiday Gift
BY MISS SARAH S. MOWER.

1851
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:
[Footnote 1: A white, fragrant flower, the earliest
that
appears.--Language.--"I am not a summer friend."]
MY BIRTH PLACE
Where "old Blue" mountain's healthful breeze
Swept o'er the green
hill-side,
My little fragile bark was launched
On life's uncertain
tide.
There verdant fields and murm'ring brooks
Invited me to roam;
Old

towering trees their heads upreared
Around my quiet home.
When morn unveiled her blushing face,
The sun came peeping in;

His quiv'ring beams upon the wall,
Checked by the leafy screen.
Oft in some sweet sequestered dell,
The blushing flow'ret smiled;

And threw around a pleasing spell,
For me, an artless child.
The fragrant blossom peeping up,
From out the mossy sod,
Caused
my young thoughts from earth to rise
And soar to nature's God.
In summer, when I wandered forth,
Beneath the deep green shade,

Or when mild autumn walked the rounds,
In gorgeous robes arrayed--
Music, in nature's softest strains,
Stole through my little breast;--

'Twas something I could not define,
Nor could it be expressed.
While some admire the pompous pile,
Or glitt'ring, costly dome,
I'd
gaze upon those ancient trees,
Round that sweet rural home.
THE OAK AND THE RILL:
OR, INDOLENT WEALTH AND HONEST LABOR.
COMPOSED FOR THE FRANKLIN AGRICULTURAL
SOCIETY.
To find employment for my pen,
I wandered from the haunts of men,

And sought a little rising ground,
With lofty oaks and elm trees
crowned,
Where I might court the friendly muse,
Who ever thinks
herself abused
When woo'd 'midst tumult, noise and strife,
And all
the busy cares of life.
With senses quite absorbed in thought,
While
all beside seemed half forgot,
I wandered on till I had strayed

Beneath