delicate a thing spring from an Earthly bed? or art thou, indeed,
fallen from the heavens as a Snowdrop? Thus I pluck thee from thy
clayey abode, in which, like some of us mortals, thou wouldst find an
early grave. I place thee in my bosom, (oh! that it were half so pure
as thou), and there shalt thou die. Thou comest like a pure spirit,
rising from thy earthly home unsullied and unknown. No longer a child
of the dust, thou steppest forth almost too delicately attired at
such a season as this. Ye winds of heaven: "breathe on it gently."
Ye showers descend on my Snowdrop with the tenderness of dew. Little
flower, I love thy look of unpretending innocence: thou art the child
of simplicity. Thou art a _flower_, even though colourless. Wert thou
never gay as others? Where are the hues thou once didst wear? Hast
thou lent them to the rainbow, or to gay and gaudy flowers, or why
so pale? Dost thou fear the winter's wind? Canst thou survive the
snow-storm? Tell me: dost thou sleep by starlight, or revel with
midnight fairies? My Snowdrop, I pity thee, for thou art a lonely
flower. Why camest thou out so early, and wouldst not tarry for thy
more cautious spring-time companions? Yet thou knowest not fear, "fair
maiden of February." Thou art bold to come out on such a morning, and
friendless too. It must be true as they tell me, that thou wert once
an icicle, and the breath of some fairy's lips warmed thee into a
flower. Indeed thou lookest a frail and fairy thing, and thou wilt not
sojourn with us long; therefore it is I make much of thee. Too soon,
ah! too soon, will thy graceful form droop and die; yet shall the
memory of my Snowdrop be sweet, while memory lasts. I know not that I
shall live to see thy drooping head another year. A thousand flowers
with a thousand hues will follow after thee, but I will not, I will
not forget thee my Snowdrop.

MAJOR CONVOLVULUS.