On Seeing A Flower Blooming When The Season Was Past. Poem by Susan Evance

Poor little solitary thing,
Dropp'd from the lap of careless Spring!
When, gath'ring all her lovely train,
Reluctantly she leaves the plain!
Ah! though Summer's skies are clear,
Though brightest sun-beams now appear,
And other, gayer flowers, we view
Where thy departed Sisters grew-
Yet, lonely one, it seems to me
Thou must melancholy be;
And pensively I sigh to find
That thou art left alone behind!
Perhaps the mournful heart can trace
Sad images in every place;
Yes, even when the happy mind
Sweetest forms of bliss would find-

But- little lingering flower, in thee
Emblems sorrowful I see!
Ah! the poor deserted heart
That has seen its friends depart,
All Youth's lov'd companions fled,
Number'd with the sleeping dead.-
Though beneath the summer ray
Of Prosperity's bright day,
In Society though thrown-
Still, like thee, he stands- alone.

Such anguish'd sorrow- such despair-
My lot has not yet been to bear.
But ah this poor forlorn heart knows
That many are its secret woes!
And when my faded hopes I see,
I think that I resemble thee,
Poor little solitary flow'r-
They wither'd with life's vernal hour
And now that. all are lost and gone,
I feel deserted- and alone.

But let me pause- my sinking heart,
Are these reflecting wisdom's part?
This weak indulgence of thy grief,
Say, can it ever give relief?
Oh hush the tumult of thy sighs,
And bid the tear no more arise.
Tho' hard the lesson to control
The swelling anguish of the soul,
Despair not- Heaven can give thee aid,
When all thy earthly comforts fade.
Angel forms are hov'ring near,
With commission'd pow'r to cheer.
Blest Religion, from above
Soft descends, on wings of love;
Holy music floating round
O how sweet the heavenly sound!
See, she comes- her gentle face
Beaming with mild Pity's grace.
O maternal form divine!
Wilt thou, wilt thou then be mine?
And sway with thy sublime control
The wayward feelings of my soul? -

Ye earthly cares which late I knew,
Ah, for ever more adieu!
For she the friend of sorrow, mild,
Yes she- will take the wand'ring Child; -
And folded on her shelt'ring breast,
My throbbing heart shall sink to rest!