Voice of Flowers/Spring Blossoms to the Mourner
SPRING BLOSSOMS TO THE MOURNER.
Thou bringest violets in thy hand,
Sweet Spring. Thy gifts how vain
To soothe us for those fair, blue eyes,
That ope no more again.
Thou bringest music of the birds,
As if such strain could pay
For their melodious speech, who sank
From our lone bowers away.
Thou showerest breathing roses round,
To blush on beauty's breast;
Give back! give back those lips of rose,
That to our own were prest.
Thou know'st to burst the tyrant gloom
Of Winter's icy urn;
Teach them to break the envious tomb,
And to our arms return.
Thou canst not! To our grieving souls
Thy boasted spell is o'er;
From all thy gifts to those we turn,
Whom thou canst ne'er restore.
To those o'er whom thy quicken'd turf,
With earliest snow-drops grows,
Yet fails to wake their wonted smile,
Or move their deep repose.
Yes; from thy charms to Him we turn,
Who laid our treasures low,
And, with a Father's love, ordains
Our discipline of woe:
We look to that unsullied clime,
Where storm shall never sweep;
Nor fickle Spring the heart beguile,
Nor drooping mourner weep.