To an Umbrella.

Thou art the belonging blest

Of the maid I love the best:

Gardened in some tropic grove,

Nurtured by the powers above,

Was thy wood so rich and rare

For her hand so small and fair;

Deftly carved by cunning craft

For her hold thy finished haft;

And thy silken folds so soft,

Where the gentle breezes waft

Fragrance from the clustered vines,

Where the sun so warmly shines,

Where the skies of purest hue

Bend above in deepest blue,

There so soft and fine were wove,

Woven only for my love.

But it is not that thy haft

Carved is by cunning craft

Of a wood so rich and rare,

That thy folds are soft and fair,

Vying only with her hair;

Not for this that I addrest

Thee in song, and called thee blest

But what thou for her hast done:

Shaded from the scorching sun

On the burning summer day

‘ Neath thy silken canopy;

Sheltered from the falling rain,

Lest her hallowed cheek it stain;

Shielded from the stormy blast,

As it hurried wildly past.

Surely thou art blest for such.—

Oh! that I might do as much!