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!