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VOICE OF FLOWERS.
Still deeper seem'd the Lily's tone
My listening ear to greet:
"Think not for sympathy alone
That thus to thee I make my moan,
Though sympathy is sweet;
"No. Be my wound thy lesson made,
We love your nobler race,
Whose lot it is like ours to fade,
Like ours, to see in darkness laid
Your blossom's wither'd grace.
"So, let the Will Supreme be blest,
And Still with spirit meek,
Shut rebel tear-drops in your breast,
And wear, as badge of Heaven's sweet rest
Its smile upon your cheek."
