246 
GENTIAN. 
Whence are ye ?— Did some white-winged 
messenger 
On Mercy’s missions trust your timid germ 
To the cold cradle of eternal snows ? 
Or, breathing on the callous icicles. 
Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye 1 — 
— Tree nor shrub 
Dare that drear atmosphere ; no polar pine 
Uprears a veteran front; yet there ye stand, 
Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribbed 
ice, 
And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him 
Who bids you bloom unblanched amid the 
waste 
Of desolation. Man, who panting, toils 
O’er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the 
verge 
Of yawning gulfs, o’er which the headlong 
plunge 
Is to eternity, looks shuddering up, 
And marks ye in your placid loveliness— 
Fearless, yet frail—and, clasping his chill 
hands, 
Blesses your pencilled beauty. ’Mid the pomp 
Of mountain summits rushing on the sky. 
And chaining the rapt soul in breathless awe. 
He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, 
Inhales your spirit from the frost-winged gale, 
And freer dreams of heaven. 
