The Lily's Whisper

"Bow down thy head, thou born of clay,—Bow down thy head to me,"A drooping Lily seemed to say.As sank the footsteps of the day,Upon the grassy lea.

Its dewy lips to mine I prest,And drank its stifled sigh,A tear-drop lay within its breast,—"Hast thou a woe to be confess'd,Thou favorite of the sky?"

"Two buds beside my heart awoke.More pure than opening day,—But lo! a hand with sudden strokeFrom my embrace those idols broke,And bore them hence away."

Still deeper seem'd the Lily's toneMy listening ear to greet:"Think not for sympathy aloneThat thus to thee I make my moan,Though sympathy is sweet;

"No. Be my wound thy lesson made,We love your nobler race,Whose lot it is like ours to fade,Like ours, to see in darkness laidYour blossom's wither'd grace.

"So, let the Will Supreme be blest,And Still with spirit meek,Shut rebel tear-drops in your breast,And wear, as badge of Heaven's sweet restIts smile upon your cheek."