102
VOICE OF FLOWERS.
Thou know'st to burst the tyrant gloom
Of Winter's icy urn;
Teach them to break the envious tomb,
And to our arms return.
Thou canst not! To our grieving souls
Thy boasted spell is o'er;
From all thy gifts to those we turn,
Whom thou canst ne'er restore.
To those o'er whom thy quicken'd turf,
With earliest snow-drops grows,
Yet fails to wake their wonted smile,
Or move their deep repose.
Yes; from thy charms to Him we turn,
Who laid our treasures low,
And, with a Father's love, ordains
Our discipline of woe:
We look to that unsullied clime,
Where storm shall never sweep;
Nor fickle Spring the heart beguile,
Nor drooping mourner weep.
