Elegy On The Death Of A Plover Poem by Susanna Blamire

Low bend thy head thou waving spray,
Soft drop the dew that falls on thee,
That still the early rising day
A tear on every leaf may see.

Soft may the zephyr whisper thro'
Thy rustling leaves, and seem to sigh,
For here beneath that pensive bough
The tender Plover closed her eye.

Tyrannic man with iron hand
Had snatch'd her from domestic love;
And in the soft connubial band
Distress her cutting thread had wove.

A harsh, unfeeling, cruel mate
Imperious held the lordly sway,
And seem'd to think the will of fate
Was but to make the weak obey.

The soft communicative hour,
The wish to please, the tender care,
The history of each opening flower
Were sweets of love she ne'er must share.

Contempt her distance threw between,
Unsocial hours their languor cast,
Joyless became each flowery scene,
And soon the fret of life was past.

Blow soft ye winds, descend ye showers,
Still murmur round this little heap,
That eve may from more gloomy bowers,
Be tempted here to stop and weep.