by Goodwyn Barmby.
Originally published in Howitt's Journal (William & Mary Howitt) vol.1 #21 (22 May 1847).
Among the leaves spread of a strawberry bed
Was a living and delicate tomb,
Which under the rich fruit, so fragrant and red,
Hung in web of a frail insect loom;
And a spirit was there in that small sepulchre,
And had panted within itself long,
Like the drear shrouded soul of a genius rare,
Or like bard who would live in sweet song.
The bright sun it shone the rich red fruit upon,
And lit up with a beam that slight tomb;
And the stir of a life faintly coming, then gone,
And now seeking for light in the gloom,
And then with a gentle pulse rising in power,
Throbbed forth in that sepulchre dim,
Like the soul of a genius waiting its hour,
When the sunshine was beaming for him.
The sun it rose high, and its warmth floated nigh
The frail tomb in the strawberry leaves,
And the tomb was a cradle for infancy's sigh,
And a cot with a thaw in the eaves;
And an emerald eye, and a rich feathered thigh,
And a soft dim-hued winglet appeared,
Like young bard or young song-thrush preparing to fly,
Ere the pinions of flight had been reared.
The sun threw a flush o'er a blushing rose-bush,
And all idly the chrysalis hung,
For the gallant New-Born, breathing love for the blush
Of the rose, into giddy flight sprung;
And so fondly he flew on the soft breeze that blew,
That he reached with delight the loved flower,
Like the soul of a bard a rich poem to view,
And by flight to grow conscious of power.
And upon the sweet flower he enchanted the hour,
And basked in her smile and the sun,
And his bright wings displayed with their rare coloured dower,
And the soft feathered down they had on;
The panting wings rich with rare velvet were drest,
And dark bars, and white rings, and light plumes,
And enraptured he lay in his black glossy vest,
Like a genius whom glory illumes.
But a cloud hid the sun, and a storm-shower came on,
And the raindrops destroyed its bright dyes,
And its velvet was crape, and its scarlet was dun,
And the tears dimmed its emerald eyes,
And its young breath was faint, and unheard was its plaint,
And it died on the breast of the rose,
Like a genius too good, both a martyr and saint,
And whose glories have death for their close.