A weedling wild, on lonely lea,
My evening rambles chanc’d to see;
And much the weedling tempted me
To crop its tender flower:
Expos’d to wind and heavy rain,
Its head bow’d lowly on the plain;
And silently it seem’d in pain
Of life’s endanger’d hour.
“And wilt thou bid my bloom decay,
And crop my flower, and me betray?
And cast my injur’d sweets away,”—
Its silence seemly sigh’d—
“A moment’s idol of thy mind?
And is a stranger so unkind,
To leave a shameful root behind,
Bereft of all its pride?”
And so it seemly did complain;
And beating fell the heavy rain;
And how it droop’d upon the plain,
To fate resign’d to fall:
My heart did melt at its decline,
And “Come,” said I, “thou gem divine,
My fate shall stand the storm with thine:”
So took the root and all.