90 VOICE OF FLOWERS. 



I kissed the tender violet, 



That droop d its stranger head, 

 And called it blessed, thus to grow 



So near my precious dead, 

 And when my venturous path shall lead 



Across the deep blue sea, 

 I bade it in its beauty rise 



And guard that spot for me. 



There was no other child, my dead ! 



This sacred task to share ; 

 Mother ! no nursling babe beside, 



E er claim d thy tenderest care. 

 And father ! that endearing name, 



No other lips than mine 

 E er breathed to prompt thy hallow d prayer 



At morn or eve s decline. 



Pluck not those flowers, thou idle child, 



Pluck not the flowers that wave 

 In sweet and simple sanctity 



Around this humble grave, 

 Lest guardian angels from the skies, 



That watch amid the gloom, 

 Should dart reproachful ire on those 



Who desecrate the tomb. 



