The Morning-Glory
Come here and sit thee down by me!
I’ve read a tale, I’ll tell to thee;
And precious will the moral be,
Though simple is the story.
It is about a brilliant flower,
With beauty scarce possessed of power
Its opening to survive an hour—
An airy Morning-Glory.
’Tis common parlance names it thus;
But ’twas a gay convolvulus:
Yet we’ll not stop to here discuss
Its species or its genus.
We’ll just suppose a blooming vine
With many leaf and bud to shine,
And curling tendrils thrown to twine
And form a bower, between us.
And we’ll suppose a happy boy,
With face lit up by hope and joy,
Who thinks that nothing shall destroy
His vine, his pride and pleasure,
Is standing near, with kindling eye,
As if its very look would pry
The cup apart, therein to spy
The growing floral treasure.
And now the petal, twisted tight,
Above the calyx peers to sight
With apex tipped with purple, bright
As if the rainbow dyed it.
While on the air it vacillates,
Its owner’s bosom palpitates
To see it open, as he waits
Impatient close beside it.
Another rising sun has thrown
Its beams upon the vine, and shown
The splendid Morning-Glory blown,
As if some little fairy,
When early from his couch he went,
On some ethereal journey bent,
Had there inverted left his tent
Of purple, high and airy.
And many a fair and shining flower
As bright as this adorned the bower,
Displayed like jewels in an hour,
Where’er the vine was clinging.
As each corolla lost its twist,
The zephyr fanned, the sunbeam kissed
The little vase of amethyst;
And round it birds were singing.
And now the little boy comes out
To see his vine. He gives a shout,
And sings and laughs, and jumps about
Like one two-thirds demented.
His little playmates, one, two, three,
Come round the beauteous vine to see,
And each cries, “Give a flower to me,
And I’ll go off contented.”
But “No,” the selfish owner cried,
And pushed his comrades all aside,
While walking round his bower with pride,
“Not one of you shall sever
A floweret from the stem so gay;
I own them, not to give away!
I’ll come to see them every day;
And keep them mine for ever!”
So, when at noon from school he came,
To see his vine was first his aim:
But oh! his feelings who can name,
As mute he stood and eyed it?
For not a flower could he behold,
While each corolla, inward rolled,
Appeared as shrivelled, dead, and old
As if a fire had dried it.
“Alas!” the selfish owner said,
“My Glories——oh! they all are dead!
And all my little friends have fled
Aggrieved! for I’ve abused them.
They’ll keep away, and but deride
My sorrow, when they hear my pride
Is gone;—that quick the pleasures died
Which rudely I refused them!”