The Flower

O Softly blow, thou biting blast,
O'er Yarrow's lonely dale ;
And spare yon bonny tender bud,
Exposed to every gale.

Long has she hung her drooping head,
Despairing to survive,
But transient sunbeams through the cloud
Still kept my flower alive.

One sweetly scented summer eve
To yonder bower I strayed,
While little birds from every bough
Their music wild conveyed.

The sunbeam leaned across the shower ;
The rainbow girt the sky ;
Twas then I saw this lovely flower,
And wonder filled mine eye.

Her cheek was then the ruddy dawn
Stolen from the rising sun ;
The whitest feather from the swan
On her fair breast was dun.

Her mould of modest dignity
Was form'd the heart to win ;
The dew-drop glistening in her eye
Showed all was pure within.

But frost on cold misfortune borne,
Hath crush'd her in the clay,
And ruthless fate hath rudely torn
Each kindred branch away.

That wounded stem will never close,
But bleeding still remain :
Relentless winds, how can ye blow,
And nip my flower again ?