86 VOICE OF FLOWERS. 



Tis a little time since the lance and spear, 

 And the clamor of war and death were here ; 

 Our siesta the shout of the murderer broke, 

 And we struggled to rend a tyrant s yoke, 

 Till our midnight slumbers were pale with 



fears, 

 And the fairest cheeks bore a mourner s tears. 



But now on the couch of its mother s breast, 

 The infant sleeps long in its dream of rest, 

 And the lover beneath the evening star, 

 Woos the young maid with his light guitar ; 

 These are the blessings that wait the free, 

 And stranger ! this flower is our gift to thee. 



