92 VOICE OF FLOWERS. 



ALPINE FLOWERS. 



MEEK dwellers mid yon terror-stricken cliffs, 

 With brows so pure, and incense-breathing 



lips, 

 Whence are ye ? 



Did some white-wing d messenger, 

 On Mercy s errands, trust your timid germ 

 To the cold cradle of eternal snows ? 

 Or, breathing on the callous icicles, 

 Bid them, with tear-drops, nurse ye ? 



Tree, nor shrub 



Dare yon drear atmosphere. No polar pine 

 Uprears a veteran front. Yet there ye stand, 

 Leaning your cheeks against the thick-ribb d 



ice, 



And looking up, with trustful eyes, to Him 

 Who bids you bloom, unbl anch d, amid the 



waste 

 Of desolation. 



