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VOICE OF FLOWERS.
ALPINE FLOWERS.
Meek dwellers 'mid yon terror-stricken cliffs,
With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips,
Whence are ye?
Did some white-wing'd messenger,
On Mercy's errands, trust your timid germ
To the cold cradle of eternal snows?
Or, breathing on the callous icicles,
Bid them, with tear-drops, nurse ye?
Tree, nor shrub
Dare yon drear atmosphere. No polar pine
Uprears a veteran front. Yet there ye stand.
Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribb'd ice,
And looking up, with trustful eyes, to Him
Who bids you bloom, unblanch'd, amid the waste
Of desolation.
