THE WINTER HYACINTH.
How beautiful thou art, my winter flower!
Day after day thy mesh of slender roots,
That mid the water wrought their busy way,
I've watch'd intently through the chrystal vase
That deck'd my mantel-piece.
Then, bursting forth,
Came leaves, and swelling buds, and floral bells,
Replete with fragrance: while thy graceful form,
Fair Hyacinth, attracted every eye,
And many a phrase of admiration woke,
As from a lover's lip;—while unto me
Thou wert as a companion, skill'd to smile
All loneliness away.
But now—alas!
I mark the plague-spot stealing o'er thy brow,
And know that thou must die.
In thy brief space,
Say—did thine inmost soul remember Him
Of whom thy rare and pencill'd beauty spake
So tenderly to us? And was thy breath
A pure and sweet ascription to His praise?
We trust it was; for those who teach of heaven
Should have its spirit too.
