CONCLUDING PIECES. 
317 
But I,—a frail and fragile thing, 
Prone to each earthly help to cling. 
Those failing,—sink beside ; 
Though once the stem in pride erect, 
With all the buds of Hope bedeck’d. 
With fairer rivals vied. 
Yet, shall I shrink from that blest hand. 
Whose pruning knife the creature band 
Severs,—though deep the wound ? 
In mercy doth he purge the tree. 
That fruit acceptable may be 
Upon its branches found ! 
And should’st thou. Lord ! the props remove. 
To which the tendrils of its love 
Would still too fondly cling. 
Oh ! twine them round that stedfast rock, 
Where never storm, nor earthquake’s shock 
Shall mar its blossoming. 
THE RHODODENDRON ON THE 
ALPS. 
MARY HOWITT. 
And is it here, that sunny flower 
that decks our gardens so ! 
And can it brave the mountain storm, 
where the oak cannot grow ? 
