THE VOICE OF FLOWERS.
FLOWERS.
Sweet playmates of life's earliest hours!
They ne'er upbraid the child,
Who, in the wantonness of mirth,
Uproots them on the wild;
And when the botanist, his shaft,
With cruel skill, doth ply,
Reproachless 'neath the fatal wound,
Martyrs to science die.
Wreathed brightly mid the locks of youth,
They come to beauty's aid,
And in this ministry of love
All unreluctant fade;
To grace the bridal and the feast,
From sun and shower, they bring
Such robes of glorious tint, as sham'd
Judea's gorgeous king.
And when the fallen meet the scorn
Of man's disdainful eye,
They smile amid his path of thorn
With sweet and pitying sigh;
And to the brow of guilt and care,
The heart by anguish riven,
Still point, with angel-finger, where
The sinner is forgiven.
They shrink not in our ghastly shroud
Their sad abode to take,
And keep their vigil o'er the tomb,
When all beside forsake;
Down in their own dark sleep of death
They sink at wintry hour,
But in new glory rise to show
The soul's immortal dower.
Oh! sharers in our time of joy,
And weepers in our woe,
We bless ye,—children of the sky,
That by the wayside grow;
That to the cottage eaves go up,
Or wreathe the courtly hall,
Still, like the Power who call'd ye forth,
Dispensing love to all.