00 VOICE OF FLOWERS. 



Still deeper seem d the Lily s tone 



My listening ear to greet : 

 &quot; Think not for sympathy alone 

 That thus to thee I make my moan, 



Though sympathy is sweet ; 



&quot; 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. 



&quot; 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.&quot; 



