SNOWDROP. 
29 
Nor let the pastor’s thankful eye 
Their faltering tale disdain, 
As on their lowly couch they lie, 
Prisoners of want and pain. 
O guide us, when our faithless hearts 
From thee would start aloof, 
Where patience her sweet skill imparts 
Beneath some cottage roof: 
Revive our drooping fires, to burn 
High as her anthems soar, 
And of our scholars let us learn 
Our own forgotten lore. 
THE SNOWDROP. 
MRS. ROBINSON. 
The Snowdrop, Winter’s timid child, 
Awakes to life, bedewed with tears, 
And flings around its fragrance mild; 
And, where no rival flowerets bloom 
Amidst the bare and chilling gloom, 
A beauteous gem appears. 
* * * * 
Where’er I find thee, gentle flower, 
Thou still art sweet and dear to me ! 
For I have known the cheerless hour, 
Have seen the sunbeams cold and pale, 
Have felt the chilling wintry gale, 
And wept and shrunk like thee. 
