Imagens da página
PDF
ePub

FLOWERS FOR THE GRAVE.

BY N. P. WILLIS.

[ocr errors]

Rom, gentle flowers! my child would pass to

heaven!
Ye look'd not for her yet with your soft eyes,
Oh watchful ushers at Death's narrow door!
But lo! while you delay to let her forth,
Angels, beyond, stay for her! One long kiss
From lips all pale with agony, and tears,
Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire
The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life
Held as a welcome to her. Weep! oh mother :
But not that from this cup of bitterness
A cherub of the sky has turn'd away!

One look upon thy face ere thou depart !
My daughter! It is soon to let thee go!
My daughter! With thy birth has gush'd a spring
I knew not of-filling my heart with tears,
And turning with strange tenderness to thee
A love-oh God! it seems so—that must flow
Far as thou fleest, and 'twixt heaven and me,
Henceforward, be a bright and yearning chain
Drawing me after thee! And so, farewell!
'Tis a harsh world, in which affection knows
No place to treasure up its loved and lost
But the foul grave! Thou, who so late wast

sleeping
Warr: in the close fold of a mother's heart

Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving
But it was sent thee with some tender thought,
How can I leave thee-here! Alas for man!
The herb in its humility may fall
And waste into the bright and genial air,
While we-by hands that ministered in life
Nothing but love to us—are thrust away-
The earth flung in upon our just cold bosoms,
And the warm sunshine trodden out for ever'

Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child,
A bank where I have lain in summer hours,
And thought how little it would seem like death
To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook,
Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps
That lead up to thy bed, would still trip on,
Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone;
The birds are never silent that build here,
Trying to sing down the more vocal waters;
The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers,
And far below, seen under arching leaves,
Glitters the warm sun on the village spire,
Pointing the living after thee. And this
Soems like a comfort; and, replacing now
The flowers that have made room for thee, I go
To whisper the same peace to her who lies-
Robb’d of her child and lonely. 'Tis the work
Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer,
To bring the heart back from an infant gone.
Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot
The images from all the silent rooms,

And every sight and sound familiar to her
Undo its sweetest link—and so at last
The fountain—that, once struck, must flow for

ever-
Will hide and waste in silence. When the sinile
Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring
Wakens the buds above thee, we will come,
And, standing by thy music-haunted grave,
Look on each other cheerfully, and say:-
A child that we have loved is gone to heaven,
And by this gate of flowers she pass’d away!

THE QUEEN OF THE GARDEN

BY MOORE.

IF Jove would give the leafy bowers
A queen for all their world of flowers,
The Rose would be the choice of Jove
And reign the queen of every grove.
Sweetest child of weeping morning,
Gem, the vest of earth adorning,
Eye of flowerets, glow of lawns,
Bud of beauty, nursed by dawns ;
Soft the soul of love it breathes;
Cypria's brow with magic wreathes ;
And to the zephyr's warm caresses
Diffuses all its verdant tresses,
Till, glowing with the wanton's play,
It blushes a diviner ray!

THE COWSLIP.
UNFOLDING to the breeze of May,
The Çowslip greets the vernal ray;
The topaz and the ruby gem,
Her blossom's simple diadem ;
And, as the dew-drops gently fall,
They tip with pearls her coronal.

In princely halls and courts of kings Its lustrious ray the diamond flings; Yet few of those who see its beam, Amid the torch-light's dazzling gleam, As bright as though a meteor shone, Can call the costly prize their own.

But gems of every form and hue
Are glittering here in morning dew;
Jewels that all alike may share
As freely as the common air ;
No niggard hand, or jealous eye,
Protects them from the passer by.

Man to his brother shuts his heart,
And Science acts a miser's part;
But Nature, with a liberal hand,
Flings wide her stores o'er sea and land.
If gold she gives, not single grains
Are scatter'd far across the plains ;
But lo, ihe desert streams are roll'd
O’er precious beds of virgin gold.
If flowers she offers, wreaths are given,
As countless as the stars of heaven :

Or music-'tis no feeble note
She bids along the valleys float;
Ten thousand nameless melodies
In one full chorus swell the breeze.

Oh, art is but a scanty rill
That genial seasons scarcely fill.
But nature needs no tide's return
To fill afresh her flowing urn:
She gathers all her rich supplies
Where never-failing waters rise.”

[ocr errors][merged small]

By the lone fountain's secret bed,
Where human footsteps rarely tread,
'Mid the wild moor of silent glen,
The Sundew blooms unseen by men;
Spreads there her leaf of rosy hue,
A chalice for the morning dew,
And, ere the summer's sun can rise,
Drinks the pure waters of the skies.

Wouldst thou that thy lot were given,
Thus to receive the dews of heaven,
With heart prepared, like this meek flower ?
Come, then, and hail the dawning hour;
So shall a blessing from on high,
Pure as the rain of summer's sky,

« AnteriorContinuar »