Yet, if like us,
Poor erring ones, thou e'er didst leave undone
What 'twas the duty of thy life to do,
Haste, and repent thee! for the time is short—
The Spoiler cometh!
Drooping on the stem,
Methought it meekly folded its faint leaves
For the last, voiceless prayer; while unto me
A gush of fragrance was its benison.
At morn I came. No more its bosom glow'd;
A heavy sleep hung o'er its leaden eyes,—
And dews like funeral tears.
Oh, Friend! whose gift
Was the dark bulb that veil'd this glorious flower,
And unto whom, in gratitude, I turn'd,
As its rich charms develop'd—come with me,
And let us gather from its wither'd lips
Some lingering sigh of wisdom.
If we blend
True love to God with every kindly deed
Unto our fellow man, and steadfast stand
At duty's post, still inly bow'd, as those
Who feel the time is short—may we not wait
For sleep's last angel, full of placid trust,
Like this sweet, folded flower?
