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.
