Volume Iii Part 41 (1/2)

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire!

Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms And cradled in the winds;

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's sway, And dared the st.u.r.dy bl.u.s.terer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone, Thy tender elegance.

So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity; in some lone walk Of life she rears her head, Obscure and un.o.bserved;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows Chastens her spotless purity of breast, And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life.

Henry Kirke White [1785-1806]

THE RHODORA On Being Asked Whence Is The Flower

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook.

The purple petals, fallen in the pool, Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array.

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!

I never thought to ask, I never knew: But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]

THE ROSE

A rose, as fair as ever saw the North, Grew in a little garden all alone; A sweeter flower did Nature ne'er put forth, Nor fairer garden yet was never known: The maidens danced about it morn and noon, And learned bards of it their ditties made; The nimble fairies by the pale-faced moon Watered the root and kissed her pretty shade.

But well-a-day!--the gardener careless grew; The maids and fairies both were kept away, And in a drought the caterpillars threw Themselves upon the bud and every spray.

G.o.d s.h.i.+eld the stock! If heaven send no supplies, The fairest blossom of the garden dies.

William Browne [1591-1643]

WILD ROSES

On long, serene midsummer days Of ripening fruit and yellow grain, How sweetly, by dim woodland ways, In tangled hedge or leafy lane, Fair wild-rose thickets, you unfold Those pale pink stars with hearts of gold!

Your sleek patrician sisters dwell On lawns where gleams the shrub's trim bosk, In terraced gardens, tended well, Near pebbled walk and quaint kiosk.

In costliest urns their colors rest; They beam on beauty's fragrant breast!

But you in lowly calm abide, Scarce heeded save by breeze or bee; You know what splendor, pomp and pride Full oft your brilliant sisters see; What sorrow too, and bitter fears; What mad farewells and hopeless tears.

How some are kept in old, dear books, That once in bridal wreaths were worn; How some are kissed, with tender looks, And later tossed aside with scorn; How some their taintless petals lay On icy foreheads, pale as they!