21
Ye plants, that in your hallow'd beds,
Like strangers, lift your trembling heads,
Drink the pure dew that evening sheds,
And meet the morning's earliest ray,
And catch the sun-beams as they play;
And when your buds are moist with rain,
Oh shed those drops in tears again;
And if the blast that sweeps the heath,
Too rudely o'er your leaves should breathe,
Then sigh for her; and when you bloom
Scatter your fragrance on her tomb.
But should you, smit with terror, cast
Your infant foliage on the blast,
Or faint beneath the vertic heat,
Or shrink when wintry tempests beat,
There is a plant of constant bloom,
And it shall deck this lowly tomb,
Not blanch'd with frost, or drown'd with rain,
Or by the breath of winter slain;
Or by the sweeping gale annoy'd,
Or by the giddy hand destroy'd,
But every morn its buds renew'd,
Are by the drops of evening dew'd
This is the plant of Gratitude.
