BALLAD
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weedling wild, on lonely lea,My evening rambles chanc’d to see;And much the weedling tempted meTo crop its tender flower:Expos’d to wind and heavy rain,Its head bow’d lowly on the plain;And silently it seem’d in painOf life’s endanger’d hour. “And wilt thou bid my bloom decay,And crop my flower, and me betray?And cast my injur’d sweets away,”--Its silence seemly sigh’d--“A moment’s idol of thy mind?And is a stranger so unkind,To leave a shameful root behind,Bereft of all its pride?” And so it seemly did complain;And beating fell the heavy rain;And how it droop’d upon the plain,To fate resign’d to fall:My heart did melt at its decline,And “Come,” said I, “thou gem divine,My fate shall stand the storm with thine:”So took the root and all.
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