Page:Voice of Flowers.pdf/124

Rest, from the blush of love;
    Rest, from the blight of care,
From the sweet nursing of your buds,
    And from the nipping air;
Rest, from the fever-thirst
    Of summer's noontide heat,
From coiling worm, and rifling hand,
    That vex'd your lone retreat.

If e'er ye thrilled with pride,
    When the admirer knelt,
Or on the lowly look'd with scorn,
    Which man for man hath felt,
If through your bosoms pure
    Hath aught like evil flow'd,
(Since folly may with angels dwell,)
    Rest from that painful load.

But not with grief or fear,
    Bow down the drooping head;
See! in the chamber of your birth
    Your dying couch is spread;
Go! strong in faith, ye flowers;
    Strong in your guileless trust,
With the returning birds, to rise
    Above imprisoning dust.