The Snow-Drop   By: Sarah S. Mower

THE SNOW DROP

A Holiday Gift

BY MISS SARAH S. MOWER.

1851

PREFACE.

The Authoress of "THE SNOW DROP" has been misfortune's child. Disease laid its relentless hand upon her in early childhood. It deprived her of a common school education and the world's sweet intercourse. Such has been its nature, that, except on one occasion, she has not been able to leave home for more than six years.

"THE SNOW DROP" would never have appeared had not life's wintry hour given it birth! It was written to beguile tedious time. Winds, as they played through groves that surround her aged father's retired and humble dwelling, sweet songsters, as they caroled from spray to spray, and the ripple of the Androscoggin, as it glided past, to her ear, were nature's sweet minstrels, that cheered her heart in solitude and inspired her, too, to attempt the artless strains of nature.

This little work, at the suggestion of her friends, is presented and dedicated to the benevolent public, humbly hoping and trusting that it may give pastime to the leisure hour, impress more fully moral and religious sentiment, and afford some little return for the thought she has bestowed upon it.

THE SNOW DROP[1]

Sweet little unassuming flower, It stays not for an April shower, But dares to rear its tiny head, While threat'ning clouds the skies o'erspread.

It ne'er displays the vain desire To dress in flaunting gay attire; No purple, scarlet, blue, or gold, Deck its fair leaves when they unfold.

Born on a cold and wintry night, Its flowing robes were snowy white; No vernal zephyrs fan its form It often battles with the storm.

It never drank mild summer's dew, But chilling winds around it blew; And hoary frost his mantle spread Upon the little snow drop's bed.

I love this modest little flower; It comes in desolation's hour The barren landscape's face to cheer, When none beside it dares appear.

Just like the friend, whose brightest smile Is spared, our sorrows to beguile; Who like some angel from the sky, When needed most, is ever nigh

To pluck vile slander's envious dart From out the wounded, bleeding heart, And raise from earth the drooping head When all our summer friends are fled.

And shall these humble pages dare Presume to ask, if they compare With that fair, fragrant, precious gem, Plucked from cold winter's diadem?

'Tis true both struggled into life, Through scenes of sorrow, care and strife; This poor, frail, intellectual flower Was reared in no elysian bower.

No ray of fortune on it shone, It forced its weary way alone; Up springing from the barren sod, Untilled, save by affliction's rod.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: A white, fragrant flower, the earliest that appears. Language . "I am not a summer friend."]

MY BIRTH PLACE

Where "old Blue" mountain's healthful breeze Swept o'er the green hill side, My little fragile bark was launched On life's uncertain tide.

There verdant fields and murm'ring brooks Invited me to roam; Old towering trees their heads upreared Around my quiet home.

When morn unveiled her blushing face, The sun came peeping in; His quiv'ring beams upon the wall, Checked by the leafy screen.

Oft in some sweet sequestered dell, The blushing flow'ret smiled; And threw around a pleasing spell, For me, an artless child.

The fragrant blossom peeping up, From out the mossy sod, Caused my young thoughts from earth to rise And soar to nature's God.

In summer, when I wandered forth, Beneath the deep green shade, Or when mild autumn walked the rounds, In gorgeous robes arrayed