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VOICE OF FLOWERS.
Forth by his side ye meekly far'd,
With pure, reproachless eye,
And when the vengeful lion roar'd,
A balmy gush of fragrance pour'd,
In hallow'd sympathy.
Ye sprang amid the broken sod,
His weary brow to kiss;
Bloom'd at his feet where'er he trod,
And told his burden'd heart of God,
And of a world of bliss.
Ye bow'd the head, to teach him how
He must himself decay;
Yet, dying, charged each tiny seed
The earliest call of Spring to heed,
And cheer his future way.
From age to age, with dewy sigh,
Even from the desert glade.
Sweet words ye whisper, till ye die
Still pointing to that cloudless sky,
Where beauty cannot fade.
