Poor wretch! that blasted leafless tree, More frail and death-like even than thee, Can yield no shelter to thy shivering form; The sleet, the rain, the wind of Heaven,
Full in thy face are coldly driven, As if thou wert alone the object of the storm. Yet, chill'd with cold, and drench'd with rain, Mild creature, thou dost not complain
By sound or look of these ungracious skies; Calmly as if in friendly shed, There stand'st thou, with unmoving head, And a grave, patient meekness in thy half-closed eyes.
Long could my thoughtful spirit gaze On thee; nor am I loth to praise Him who in moral mood this image drew; And yet, methinks, that I could frame
An image different, yet the same, More pleasing to the heart, and yet to Nature true. Behold a lane retired and green, Winding amid a forest-scene
With blooming furze in many a radiant heap; There is a browsing ass espied One colt is frisking by her side, And one among her feet is safely stretch'd in sleep.
And lo! a little maiden stands, With thistles in her tender hands, Tempting with kindly words the colt to eat; Or gently down before him lays,
With words of solace and of praise, Pluck'd from th’ untrodden turf the herbage soft and sweet. The summer sun is sinking down, And the peasants from the market town
With chearful hearts are to their homes returning; Groupes of gay children too are there, Stirring with mirth the silent air, O'er all their eager eyes the light of laughter burning.
The ass hath got his burthen still! The merry elves the panniers fill; Delighted there from side to side they swing. The creature heeds nor shout nor call,
But jogs on careless of them all, Whether in harmless sport they gaily strike or sing. A gipsey-groupe! the secret wood Stirs through its leafy solitude,
As wheels the dance to many a jocund tune; Th’ unpannier'd ass slowly retires From the brown tents, and sparkling fires, And silently feeds on beneath the silent moon.
The Moon sits o'er the huge oak tree, More pensive‘ mid this scene of glee That mocks the hour of beauty and of rest; The soul of all her softest rays
On yonder placid creature plays, As if she wish'd to cheer the hardships of the opprest. But now the silver moonbeams fade, And, peeping through a flowery glade,
Hush'd as a wild-bird's nest, a cottage lies: An ass stands meek and patient there, And by her side a spectre fair, To drink the balmy cup once more before she dies.
With tenderest care the pitying dame Supports the dying maiden's frame, And strives with laughing looks her heart to chear; While playful children crowd around
To catch her eye by smile or sound, Unconscious of the doom that waits their lady dear! I feel this mournful dream impart A holier image to my heart,
For oft doth grief to thoughts sublime give birth:— Blest creature! through the solemn night, I see thee bath'd in heavenly light, Shed from that wond'rous child — The Saviour of the Earth.
When, flying Herod's murd'rous rage, Thou on that wretched pilgrimage Didst gently near the virgin-mother lie; On thee the humble Jesus sate,
When thousands rush'd to Salem's gate To see‘ mid holy hymns the sinless man pass by. Happy thou wert,— nor low thy praise, In peaceful patriarchal days,
When countless tents slow passed from land to land Like clouds o'er heaven:— the gentle race Such quiet scene did meetly grace,— Circling the pastoral camp in many a stately band.
Poor wretch!— my musing dream is o'er; Thy shivering form I view once more, And all the pains thy race is doom'd to prove. But they whose thoughtful spirits see
The truth of life, will pause with me, And bless thee in a voice of gentleness and love!
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