146 
MOSS. 
THE MOSS. 
Ah, lovely flower! what care, what power, 
In thy fair structure are display’d, 
By Him who rear’d thee to this hour, 
Within the forest’s lonely shade! 
Thy tender stalk, and fibres fine, 
Here find a shelter from the storm; 
Perhaps no human eyes but mine 
Ere gazed upon thy lovely form. 
The dew-drop glistens on thy leaf, 
As if thou seem’dst to shed a tear; 
As if thou knew’st my tale of grief— 
Felt all my sufferings severe. 
But, ah! thou know’st not my distress,— 
In danger here from beasts of prey, 
And robb’d of all I did possess, 
By men more fierce by far than they. 
Nor canst thou ease my burden’d sigh, 
Nor cool the fever at my heart, 
Though to the zephyrs passing by 
Thou dost thy balmy sweets impart. 
Yet He that form’d thee, little plant, 
And bade thee flourish in this place, 
Who sees and feels my every want, 
Can still support me by Plis grace. 
