82 VOICE OF FLOWERS. 



I have no costly Dahlias, nor greenhouse flow 

 ers to weep, 



But I passed the rich man s garden, and the 

 mourning there was deep, 



For the crownless queens, all drooping, hung 

 amid the wasted sod, 



Like Boadicea, bent with shame, beneath the 

 Roman rod. 



Tis hard to say farewell, my plants, tis hard 



to say farewell ; 

 The florist might despise ye, yet your worth I 



cannot tell ; 

 For at rising sun, or even-tide, in sorrow or in 



glee, 

 Your fragrant lips have ever op d, to speak 



good words to me. 



Most dear ye were to him who died, when 



summer round ye play d, 

 That good old man, who looked with love on 



all that God had made ; 

 Who, when his first familiar friends sank 



down in dreamless rest, 

 Took nature s green and living things more 



closely to his breast. 



