The Snowdrop, winter’s timid child, Awakes to life bedewed with tears, And flings around its fragrance mild; And, where no rival flowerets bloom, Amidst the bare and chilling gloom A beauteous gem appears. All weak and wan, with head inclined, Its parent breast the drifted snow, It trembles, while the ruthless wind Bends its slim form; the tempest lowers, Its emerald eye drops crystal showers On its cold bed below. Where’er I find thee, gentle flower, Thou still art sweet and dear to me; For I have known the cheerless hour, Have seen the sunbeams cold and pale, Have felt the chilling wintry gale, And wept and shrunk, like thee! _Mary Robinson._ * * * * * No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own; Responds, as if with unseen wings An angel touched its quivering strings, And whispers in its song, “Where hast thou stayed so long?” _Longfellow._ * * * * * The star of Hope will beam in Sorrow’s night, And smile the phantoms of Despair to flight. _Anon._ * * * * * “Why do you call the Snowdrop pale, Our first of flowerets bright? For the Christmas Rose came long before, So did the Aconite.” I know the yellow Aconite; I know the Christmas Rose: But neither one nor other e’er Within my garden grows. They seem to me presumptuous things, That rudely hurry on, And struggle for the precedence A fairer flower hath won. When I was but a wee, wee thing, A young Snowdrop I nursed, And I loved it when they told me how It always blossomed first. I marked its tiny, trembling stem, And dainty little bell, And, oh! so tenderly enjoyed Its faint, delicious smell. It was not only fair and sweet, ’Twas the first flower that came; So said they then, and there is none I could love now the same. The Aconite may deck with gold Its merry little face-- The Christmas Rose at Christmas bloom, But none can fill _her_ place. Within my garden’s small domain The Snowdrop still shall find Herself the earliest flower. She leads, The others come behind. And, lo! above the heaving mould The clustering bells hang here; Like foam upon the storm-black wave, Or pearls in Ethiop’s ear. And I know where they’re crowding thick, With none their wealth to note;-- All o’er that woody isle, that lies Girt by the ancient moat. There, under tall, dark crested firs, The Snowdrops spring each year; And shed about that gloomy place A lightness pale and clear. A grand old Manor House once stood On that dim moated isle; But long years since have floated by,